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THE POEMS 



OF 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, 

"Slprait" ol "Sli falion." 



EDITED, WITH AN 

INTRODUCTION 

BY THE 

giut^or of 

"LIFE AND LETTERS OF JOHN MARTIN,*' 
" LIFE OF JOHN MITCHEL," ETC. 



IDufiltn: 

JAMES DUFFY AND CO., Ltd., 

16 Weujngton Quay. 

1894. 



J / > 



rSINTBO BY 
€l ft 62 GREAT STXAND STREBT, DUBLIN. 



fc 



CONTENTS. 





PAGK 


Introduction, . . . . . 


• • 

Vli 


fiaXional foemt. 




The Nation's VsJentine — To the Ladies of Ireland, 


I 


The Gathering of Leinster, 


4 


The Battle of Clontarf, . . . . 


6 


The Rath of Mullaghmast, 


9 


The Lion and the Serpent, 


12 


Lament for Clarence Mangan, 


16 


Dedication of the Harp of " The Nation," 


21 


The Vision, ...... 


25 


A Prophecy, 




28 


The Munster War-Song, . 




31 


The Leinster War-Song, 




35 


Western War-Song, 


- 


38 


Irish War-Song, 




41 


Irish War-Song, 




42 


The Mountain War-Song, 




43 


The Captivity, 




46 


The Extermination, 




49 


Steady ! 




51 


Fall, Flag of Tyrants. 




. 52 


Gratias Agamus, 




. .55 


The Patriot Brave, 




57 


Here's a Chorus, 




. 59 


Hand in Hand, 




60 


Kling I Klang ! 




64 


Adieu to Innisfail, . 


• • • 


• ^ 



IV 



CONTENTS. 



The Pass of Plumes, 

Lord of Hosts, 

King Brian's March to Clontarf , . 

Freedom, .... 

The Irish National Guard to his Sister, 

Lament for Thomas Davis, 

Song of the Lrish- American Regiments, 

The Mine of Tortona, 



PAOK 

n 

74 
77 
80 
82 
85 
87 



Misadventui'es of a Medical Student : — 
No. I. — Blighted Love, 
No. II.— The Cut One, 
No. in. — My Skull, . 
No. rv. — Quodded, 
No. V. — The Taxman, 
No. VI. — The Dream, . 
No. VII.- -A Dream of the Rotundo, 
No. vin. — A Reverie, 
No. IX. — My Cousin, . 
No. X.— The Cirilla Fulchella, 
No. XI. — To the Fraulein Von Bummel, 

Dear Law, ..... 

Advice to a Young Poet, . 

Valentine to the Poetesses of the " Nation," 

Romance in Real Life, 

The Barmaid's Eyes, 

The Legend of Stiffenbach, 

Dunore Hill, .... 

A Dream, ..... 

Reason and Song, .... 



91 
97 
101 
108 
115 
119 
124 
133 
137 
155 
162 

167 
169 
174 
179 
181 
184 
187 
191 
194 





CONTENTS. 




V 


« 






PAQB 


Oh ! for a Feed, . 


• • 


• 


. 198 


Leander, 


• • 


• 


. 200 


*' Never say Die," . 


• • 


• 


. 204 


Winter — an Elegy, 


• • 


• 


. 206 



iB(scenaneou0 9oem0. 



The Poet's Passion, 


. 211 


Day Dreams, 


. 215 


The Dying Girl, . 


. 220 


To Fanny Power, . 


. 223 


To Kathleen, 


. 225 


To Jessy, .... 


. 227 


A Dream of the Stars, 


. 230 


Trust Not, .... 


. 234 


To Mary, .... 


. 236 


Ben Heder, 


. 240 


Last Song of Kirke White, 


. 243 


Hardress Cregan to Eily O'Connor, 


. 245 


Hardress Cregan to Anne Chute, . 


. 246 


Those Sunny Hours, 


. 248 


The Flower, 


. 249 


St. Kevin to his Sister, 


. 250 


St. Kevin to Kathleen, 


. 253 


The Praise of Michael, 


. 257 


Sister of Charity, . . . . 


. 261 


The Hymn of St. Brigid, . 


. 264 


Invocation, . . . . 


. 267 


A Thought on Calvary, 


. 269 


Vesper Hymn, , . . . 


. 271 


Kyrie Eleison, . . . . 


. 274 


Contrition — Adoration, 


. WV 



VI CONTENTS. 






PAOI 


Adoro Te Devote, . 


. 280 


Before the Blessed Sacrament, 


. 282 


To our Lady of Victory, . 


. 284 


Dies Irae, .... 


. 292 


Stabat Mater, Paraphraaed, 


. 296 


To the Mother of the Christinas Babe, 


. 299 


The Sister of Mercy, 


. 301 


Lines on the Death of his Infant Daughter 


, Katie, 303 


To Isabel, . . . . . 


. 303 


A Breeze through the Forest, 


. 306 


Not For Me, 


. 311 


The Voice of June, 


. 313 


Srin, . . . . . 


. 317 


Melpomene, . . . . 


. 319 


Prologue for " Cato," 


. 322 


The Fairies of Knockshegowna, . 


. 325 


Come with Me o'er Ohio, . 


. 328 


Longing, .... 


. 332 



INTRODUCTION. 



Richard D' Alton Williams, the poet whose 
collected works are here presented, is sufficiently 
well known to the Irish people to need no 
introduction ; but as it is hoped that his poems 
may be read by others as well, some account 
of his life may be found of interest. To those 
whose conception of the poet is that of an 
amazing compound of exalted virtue and de- 
grading vice, his story may prove disappointing. 
Sir Walter Scott's last words to Lockhart were, 
''Be a good man, my dear!" and this it was that 
Williams always endeavoured to be. His lot was 
not the happiest in the great lottery wherein 
prizes are rare, and in which no one has ever yet 
won lasting happiness. But this did not stamp 
itself on his poetry, or give rise to any psycho- 
logical morbidness resolving itself into question- 
ings AS to the use of life and its Living- Worthi- 
ness. On the contrary, his poems are all 
perfectly healthy in tone, breathing the only 
true philosophy — bo beautifully expressed by 
America's poet : — 

" Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
Is our destined end or NV«i^ " 



VUi -^ INTRODUCTION. 

^ There is a sense in which biographical detail 
gives light to criticism ; yet, although it might 
be interesting to trace the influence of pedigree 
on his poetry, still for the purpose of this 
narrative it is sufficient to state that Williams 
was bom in Dublin on the 8th of October, 1822. 
It was, however, in Grenanstown, a romantic 
spot^ "meet nurse for a poetic child," at the 
foot of the Tipperary mountains, that his child- 
hood and early youth were passed. Here, 
although he never knew a father's love, a 
mother's tender care watched over him, and 
he in turn loved her deeply. She it was who 
instilled into his young mind those excellent 
principles of goodness and truth, and that 
solid piety, "the soul's securest guard/' for 
which he was so remarkable all through life. 

He was first sent to the Jesuit School of St. 
Stanislaus, at Tdlabeg, where, he tells us, he was 
sufficiently acquainted with the fervla of the 
then prefect, Father Meagher, uncle of Thomas 
Francis Meagher. Here his master was the 
Rev. Dr. Taylor, a very distinguished professor, 
who subsequently became Parish Priest of 
Maryborough, where he died in 1876. Having 
completed his preparatory course, Williams 
passed to St. Patrick's College, Carlow, which 

^^ entered in 1839, &t which time the Yeiy iLw. 



INTRODUCTION. .-li 



Andrew Fitzgerald was president. He dtcNUbd 
here for some years, and even at this early age 
began to write poetry. Some of those juvenile 
pieces were considered of sufficient merit to 
obtain a place in a Book of Honour kept in the 
College wherein were enshrined such composi- 
tions, prose and verse, of the students as were 
worthy of preservation. His youthful produc- 
tions which have been thus preserved number 
ten, and include two attempts in blank verse 
which, however, he never afterwards essayed. 
None of these productions find a place in this 
volume, for however interesting they may be 
considered as juvenilia^ it is not just that the 
efforts of the young in trying their wings 
should be regarded after they have learned 
to soar. What good use he had made of 
this period of apprenticeship to the Muses 
is clearly evidenced by the excellence of his 
first published contribution to poetry : the 
famous "Munster War Song," which appeared 
in the Nation for the 7th of January, 1843. 
This poem was directly inspired by Thomas 
Davis's "Lament for Owen Roe,** which was 
instrumental in discovering to Davis that he 
had the poetic gift, and in stimula.tv\i^ \^^ 
youD^ student to excel in lYi^ 1ltV» lot ^>kv^ 
he had evinced such an aplitxidie. T^^^ \a»»».- 



X INTRODUCTION. 

script of this poem was signed " Shamrock,"* 
a nom de plume which the readers of the Nation 
grew to know and to love, and which was 
chosen by Williams because its triple leaf was 
symbolic to him of Faith, Hope and Love. 

The favour with which this poem was re- 
ceived must have been somewhat of a surprise 
to its author; yet truly it was a brilliant 
achievement, and one worthy of a much older 
hand. It ensured him a position on the staff 
of the Nation writers, and called forth the 
warmest encomiums from Thomas Davis and 
Oavan Duffy, the editors of that journal, who 
assured him in the number for January 21st, 
1843, that ^' ' Shamrock ' is a jewel. He cannot 
write too often. His verses are full of vigour, 
and as natural as the harp of Tara." But 
Williams was conscious that he could write too 
often, and was careful to take time in the 
production and polishing of his verses before 
sending them to the Nation, in which much 
of his early poetry appeared. Although the 
" Munster War Song " was his first published 
poem, yet an earlier one from his pen is in- 
cluded in this volume, — it is the poem entitled 



* It was published, withoat a sigaature, as No. 3 of 
SoDga oi thiB NaUanJ* 



INTRODUCTION. XI 

"Erin," which he wrote in October, 1841, 
but which was never printed in the Nation or 
in any collection of his poems. He also con- 
tributed to the Evening Tablet and to Duffy's 
Irish Catholic Magazine over the initials D. N. S., 
the final letters of his name. 

His next appearance in the Nation was on the 
25th of February, 1843, with the pathetic 
" Adieu to Innisfail," which for him proved to 
be somewhat of a prophecy. In this month of 
February he also wrote " The Voice of June/^ 
which he sent to the Nation along with the 
" Adieu to Innisfail," but, owing to its length, 
space could not be found for it at the time. It is 
not to be supposed, however, that Williams con- 
templated devoting himself exclusively to the 
making of verses, an occupation which, while 
doubtless fascinating, is apt to make the 
dreamer rather than the worker, and as medi- 
cine was the field in which he proposed to 
labour, he came to Dublin in March, 1843» 
and began his attendance at the School of 
Medicine. While pursuing his studies for this 
profession he was connected with St. Vincent's 
Hospital in Stephen's Green. Here it was that 
be received inspiration for two of his most 
beautiful ballads: '*The Sister of Charity," 
and "The Dying Girl." To livj^ ^yv\X*W5l 



Xll INTRODUCTION. 

these two alone would have constituted his 
claim to the title of poet — the beauty of thought 
and the felicity of diction alike command our 
admiration, while the pathos of the latter 
goes straight to the heart. 

It is to those medical student days in Dublin 
that we owe the series of mirthful verses which 
he called the "Misadventures of a Medical 
Student/' and into which he worked the most 
fantastically humorous notions, combined with 
a free use of medical terminology, Latin ab- 
breviations, and Greek compounds. Of these 
verses it may be said that while innocently 
gay, they have wit combined with a native 
ease and grace. In them he gave vent to his 
talent for parody, and freely parodied, amongst 
others, Byron and Bulwer Lytton, but his most 
daring feats in this direction are his parodies 
of Davis's ''Oh I for a Steed!" O'Hagan's 
" Dear Land," and Clarence Mangan's " Time 
of the Barmecides " — the latter is undoubtedly 
the best, having caught exactly the spirit and 
pathos of the great original, and makes us 
almost forgive the irreverence in its very 
audacity. Those who are familiar with 
Drayton's " Battle of Agincourt " will recognise 
a perfect travesty of the manner of that ballad 
w the ''Bomance in ResA life f but ^iWrnxoa 



INTRODUCTION. Xlii 

also used this impressive metre with striking 
effect in some of his serious poems. 

In high contrast to those faceticB are his reli- 
gious pieces, foremost amongst which must be 
placed his exquisite translations, or paraphrases 
rather, of the " Dies Irse " and of the " Adoro Te 
Devote." His rendering of the '^ Stabat Mater," 
while in many respects excellent, is somewhat 
spoiled by the two first grandly simple words 
being withheld too long. These translations he 
undertook at the special request of the nuns 
of the hospital, who have shown their appre- 
ciation of them by incorporating them in their 
"Manual of Devotions." The metre used by 
Williams in the "Dies Irae" is the same, it 
will be observed, as his " King Brian's March 
to Clontarf," and accords perfectly with the 
dirge-like cadence of the original. The critical 
reader who would like to contrast other versions 
of this wonderful hymn will find an admirable 
translation, in the metre of the original, in 
Blackwood^s Magazine for March, 1860, by an 
English Protestant Clergyman, the Rev. Philip 
Stanhope Worseley : another that may be 
mentioned is by John 0*Hagan (justly famous 
for his magnificent translation of the " Ch.atv&oTv. 
de Roland'^f and which will be iownA. \vv >i>cift 
JnsA MofUhly^ vol. ii., p. 136. Beiox^ ^^^««^^ 



xiv INTRODUCTION. 

from the mention of Williams' sacred poems, 
it is impossible to resist drawing attention to the 
two very remarkable outbursts of lyrical piety, 
"Before the Blessed Sacrament," and "Con- 
trition and Adoration." These beautiful pieces, 
replete as they are with religious feeling and 
poetic grace, would add lustre to the fame of a 
greater poet. Reading them we are fain to regret 
that their author was unable to lead a life of 
lettered ease in which he could have done full 
justice to his intellect, and poured his spirit 
forth in songs that would never die. 

Williams on his advent in Dublin was re- 
ceived into the inner circle of " Young Ireland," 
soon to be carried along by the wave of 
revolutionary excitement that swept over 
Europe, scattering dynasties and shaking thrones 
to their very foundations. The prose articles 
in the Nation became more vigorous^ the poetry 
more fervid — ^Davis and Williams putting their 
whole souls into their ballads and war-songs. 
The clash of arms could almost be heard as one 
read these soul-stirring effusions. In the midst 
of all this, death struck Thomas Davis down — 
Davis the foremost among that heroic band 
who never yielded, though foredoomed to fail. 
T/ien came the Famine with all its attendant 
Aorrora, and black despair seemed «Joou^ \.o 



INTRODUCTION. XV 

settle over the land, when John Mitghel 
established the United Irishman newspaper, 
and with burning soul and flashing pen en- 
deavoured to rouse the people from their 
lethargy. Never, before or since, in Irish 
journalism has there been such brilliant writing 
as for sixteen weeks illumined the pages of that 
historic paper. The crisis thus precipitated 
came, and MitcheFs paper was suppressed. 
'* Patriotism once felt to be a duty becomes 
so." No sooner was the United Irishman sup- 
pressed than two other papers took its 
place. John Martin established the Irish Felon, 
Williams and Kevin Izod O'Dogherty (another 
young medical student), the Irish Tribune, the 
first number of which appeared on the 10th 
of June, 1848. The evangel preached by 
Mitchel was further propagated in these two 
journals; but not for long, for after a brief 
career of six weeks the Irish Tribune was sup- 
pressed, and on the 16th of July Williams was 
arrested at his residence, 35 Mountpleasant 
Square, Eanelagh, but his trial did not take 
place until the 2nd of November. Judge 
Torrens and Judge Crampton presided at 
the Commission, whereat he was charged 
with treason-felony, in having ^^oTXi^^^'&^^^ 
imagined, or intended to depose «»i^^ \«^1 



XVI INTRODUCTION. 

war against the Queen, by the publication of 
certain articles in the Irish Tribune, Against 
this charge he was defended by Sir (then Mr.) 

* Samuel Ferguson, Sir Col man O'Loghlen, and 
Mr. (afterwards Judge) O'Hagan. That our 
poet should have had enlisted in his defence 
two such true poets as John 0*Hagan and Sir 
Samuel Ferguson was a peculiarly happy in- 
cident ; the latter's speech for the defence was 
manly, eloquent, and judicious, and well cal- 
culated to promote the interests of his client. 
In the result the jury found a verdict of Not 
Guilty, and, in closing the Commission, the 
judges ordered that Williams should be set at 
liberty. The previous day O'Dogherty had 
been convicted and sentenced to transportation 
for ten years : a similar sentence was passed on 
John Martin. Thus closed in disaster Williams' 
brief participation in Irish political journalism. 
The funds required for the enterprise were 
supplied by a young DubHn doctor named 
Antisell, who also contributed to the literary 
department of the paper, as did the celebrated 
John Savage, who died in New York on the 
9th of October, 1888. 
In the first number of the Tribune appeared 
^Ae poem entitled " The Irish National Guard 

^o his Sister/' in which occur the lines — 



INTRODUCTION. XVll 

** Chain-breaking Liberty, at whose command, 
For weal or woe, to felon-chains or slaughter, 
I do devote myself for this dear land." 

But perhaps the finest poetry that Williams wrote 
about this period was the striking ballad, " Lord 
of Hosts," which appeared in John Mitchel's 
United Irishman on the 20th of May, 1848, and 
the touching ^*Kyrie Eleison," a lay of the 
Famine, which he wrote for Duffy's Irish Catholic 
Magazine. This poem has been enshrined by 
Miss Annie Keary in one of the most affecting 
passages in her famous novel, '' Castle Daly," in 
which she makes her heroine, Ellen Daly, read 
it " with a face wet with tears." 

It was with a spirit much subdued that 
Williams resumed his medical studies after 
the collapse of his trial. His worldly circum- 
stances, never the best, were now worse than 
ever, and his proud spirit prevented him from 
letting his friends know his condition. That 
sense of humour to which we owe the " Mis- 
adventures of a Medical Student" never de- 
serted him, however, for we find him saying 
that bread-and-water was not so bad if one 
could get enough of it. Having finished his 
studies in Dublin he proceeded to Edinburgh 
on the 31 St ot July, 1849, and \.\i«t^ \*o^ w>N* 
Ai5 diploma. On his return to T>\jM&ol vq^ 

b 



XVlll INTRODUCTION. 

November of the same year he became attached 
for some time to Stevens' Hospital ; but his 
literary tastes were still a distraction, notwith- 
standing that he said in a letter to Denis 
Florence MacCarthy, dated from 4 Hamilton 
Row, 23rd November, 1849 : — ** I am too well 
aware that in me the fire of song is extinct for 
ever, and has left me only very bitter ashes." 
Truly, " the heart knoweth its own bitterness." 
Early in 1851 he resolved to become an 
exile in the greater Ireland beyond the sea. 
" The mournful exile's song is now for me to 
learn," sang another Irish poet, and it was with 
this feeling full upon him that Williams wrote 
" Come with me o'er Ohio." This poem ap- 
peared in the Nation for the 1st of March, 1851, 
and in June of that year he left his native 
land behind him for ever. Those readers who 
would like to picture to the mind's eye the 
man as he was at this time may be interested 
to know that he was slightly above the middle 
height, his face pale and thoughtful in ex- 
pression, rather good-looking than handsome, 
and being weak-sighted he wore spectacles. 
In manner he was gentle, and reserved almost 
to shyness, but in congenial society a very 
pJeasant companion. At those re-unions and 
^eeAJjr suppers which the "Young Ireland" cViA^ 



INTRODUCTION. XIX 

used to hold at each other's residence, he was 
one of the gayest of an exceedingly gay party, 
not infrequently would he sing for them some 
of his own compositions, which were thus first 
introduced to an expectant ahd appreciative 
audience. 

In America Williams made his first home 
in Alabama. Here he obtained a professorship 
of Belles-Lettres in the Jesuit College, at Spring 
Hill, Mobile, which he held for some years. 
In a letter written from here on the 11th of 
December, 1853, to the Rev. Stephen Anster 
Farrell, whom Williams knew in Dublin as a 
Curate in Francis Street, but who afterwards 
became a Jesuit, we find the old humour 
breaking out again. *'I wish," he says, 
"you could send us an Irish Father, a 
scholastic, or even a novice. If he have an eye 
for colov/r^ scarlet fever, yellow ditto, and bl,ue 
cholera, afford a striking variety which can 
be admired at leisure. The curious in ophio- 
logy can also make a brilliant and entirely 
unlimited collection. 'Here's a fine opening 
for a young man,' as Cartius said of the chasm 
in the Forum." From Mobile he paid occa- 
sional visits to Havanna and to New OrlesA^^ 
and in the latter city he made t\ve aQC3^*ab\\i\»*d^^^^ 
of a Mrs. Connolly, a widow \8^d^ ol \yw^ 



XX INTRODUCTION. 

birth, and closely connected with the Irish 
families of Brooke, Cuthbert, and O'Hara. 
With her daughter, Elizabeth, he fell in love, 
and it is to her that the lines "To Isabel,'' 
which appear now for the first time in his 
works, were addressed. The poet's love was 
returned, and they were married at New 
Orleans on the 8th of September, 1856. He 
then resigned his professorship, and made his 
home in New Orleans, having decided to 
resume his practice of the medical profession, 
which he then successfully carried on for some 
years. During these years he occasionally con- 
tributed to American magazines and journals, 
and also sent some pieces to the old NcUiorij 
but the greater part of his literary work was 
done previous to 1851. 

He had four children, one son and three 
daughters, two of whom are dead; the 
youngest, Katie, is the subject of the " Lines " 
on page 303. 

The climate of New Orleans had much 
to do with the breaking up of his health, 
which in 1860 induced him to seek change, 
first at Baton Kouge (the then capital city, 
about 130 miles above New Orleans), and 
£nalJjr at Thibodeaux, also in Louisiana, in 
ff'A/cIi town be w&a residing at tVie ou^Jai^^ 



INTRODUCTION. XXI 

of the Civil War. While here he wrote his 
last poem, entitled " Song of the Irish- American 
Segiments," breathing all his old patriotism; and 
here he died of consumption on the 5th of July, 
1862. On the following 8th of October he would 
have completed his fortieth year. As he had 
prophesied at the outset of his career he indeed 
''slumbers in a foreign tomb," but not in a 
nameless or a noteless one ; for those Irish- 
American soldiers, whose sentiments he had 
so recently expressed in song, hearing of his 
death, sought out his grave, and finding it all 
but unmarked subscribed amongst them for 
the purchase of a beautiful monument of Carara 
marble which they erected over his last resting 
place, and which bears this graceful and elo- 
quent inscription : — 

SACKED TO THE MEMOBT OF 

RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, 

THE IRISH PATRIOT AND POET, 

WHO DIED JULY 5tH, 1862. AGED 40 YEARS. 

THIS STONE WAS ERECTED BY HIS COUNTRYMEN SERVING 
IN COMPANIES C AND K, 8THREGT., N.H. VOLUNTEERS, 

AS A SLIGHT TESTIMONIAL OF THEIR ESTEEM 

FOR BIS UNSULLIED PATRIOTISM AND HIS EXAXiE^l^ 

DBVOTIOK 

TO THiE CAUSE OF IBISB. TEL'SSDO'VL. 



XXll INTRODUCTION. 

This touching incident has been commemorated 
in verse by another Irish poet, who also " lies 
far off beyond the wave" — Thomas D'Arcy 
McGee. 

Such is the life-story of Kichard D' Alton 
Williams, physician, journalisb, and poet, who 
gave to the service of the poor and his country 
those talents with which heaven had endowed 
him. We say talent whereas we might say 
genius, for little less than genius could have 
given us such beautiful and heart-stirring lyrics 
as are to be found within the compass of this 
small volume. Into the merits of his poems 
it is not now needful to enter critically. 
Poetry with him was a passion, not a fashion. 
His poems were not, as is the dainty privilege 
of these days, given to the public in small 
doses, — rivulets of text in meadows of margin ; 
they even appeared occasionally in the "An- 
swers to Correspondents" column of newspapers, 
where indeed some of Mangan's first saw the 
light. Like Mangan he had a marvellous 
command of rhythm, but unlike him his poetry, 
while the genuine outpouring of a nature that 
could feel tenderly and love deeply, was not 
wrung from the depths of a heart filled with 
abiding sorrow. Hia pathos, however, is genu- 
^^e/ no false or flickly sentiment, but oWyow^X^ 



INTRODUCTION. XXUl 

gushing straight from the heart; — not even 
Robert Burns has written anything more pa- 
thetic than "The Dying Girl," which it is 
difficult to read without tears. His national 
and patriotic ballads while little, if anything, 
inferior in spirit to those of Thomas Davis, 
are more finished than his, although he was 
not prone to labour at the embellishing of 
what he wrote. 

" With Dative eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts and music in his song." 

Had he been an ambitious poet he would, 
doubtless, have devoted to the polishing of his 
verses those hours which, snatched from a life 
of toi], he gave to the visiting and alleviating 
the suflferings of the Sick Poor in his capacity 
of member of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, 
then just introduced into Ireland from France, 
and which he was one of the first to aid in 
establishing in Dublin. 

Sir Samuel Ferguson, himself a poet of dis- 
tinction and no mean critic of poetry, declared 
Williams to be, after Moore, one of the first 
of Irish poets ; but in awarding him a niche 
in Ireland's Temple of Fame it need not me&n 
the displacement of any that are aYt^s^dc^ ^iXi^x^* 
It is always rash to attempt to a'asv^ t)ti^ ^^^^ 



XXIV INTRODUCTION. 

of any po^t, especially in these days when, to 
borrow Swift's phrase, "every fool his claim 
alleges " to the title. Dr. Johnson says : " By 
the common sense of readers, uncorrupted with 
literary prejudices, after all the refinements of 
subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must 
be finally decided all claim to poetical honours." 
And the same high authority assures us that 
^'Time quickly puts an end to artificial and 
accidental fame." From these tests of time 
and common sense D' Alton Williams' fame has 
nothing to fear. Thirty-two years have rolled 
by since he was laid in his grave, and " Ireland, 
mother of sweet singers," still cherishes his 
poems as a precious heritage. As one of the 
sweetest singers of the Nation — the journal 
that "breathed a soul into Ireland" — his 
works are deserving of that permanent place 
in Irish Literature to which it is safe to say 
they have now attained. 

ir. A. o. 

Dublin, Mapj 1894. 



9otm» of Uitftavl^ B^alton Wlilliam^. 



THE NATION'S VALENTINE. 

TO THE IJ^DIES OF IRELAND. 



'* I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own, the burning tear-drop laves 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves." 

— Bybox. 

I. 

Oh, Daughters of Erin 1 while liberty hovers, 
Like the dove of the Ark, o'er the flood of 
our tears, 
'Tis yours to brace on the chainmail of your 
lovers, 
And broider gay streamers to float from 
their spears. 

II. 
Unsullied and soft as the snow's infant winglets 
Is the bosom of her who is muse of our song; 
And her melting eyes shine through dark 
clouds of rich ringlets. 
With a soul that to Emmet's firat Ion^ \xi\^ciX» 
belong. 



2 POEMS OF 

III. 

And though scarcely the seraphs that smiling 
watch o'er her, 
More fondly — more truly can love in the 
skies, 
Yet not her's is the wish to behold her adorer 
Forget his land's wrongs in the light of her 
eyes. 

IV. 

Yes ! thine is the fire that, now sacredly glow- 
ing, 
Impels my wrapt soul to bright liberty's 
shrine, 
The wave was congeal'd till thy breath set it 
flowing- 
God gave the lyre, but to tune it was thine. 



V. 

Oh, woman ! our load-star, whose worship for 
ever. 
Gives strength to the sword — inspiration to 
song— 
The hour thou wilt aid thine own fetters to 
sever, 
Not earth's banded tyrants our thrall can 
prolong. 



RICHARD d'ALTON WILLIAMS. 3 

VI. 

Withdraw, then, thy presence, from pleasure's 
gay bowers. 
And smile but on him who braves danger 
and toil. 
Thus beauty and virtue, asserting their powers, 
Shall more than atone for the false Devor- 
ghoil. 



VIL 

Irresistible loveliness, wouldst thou but cherish 
The patriot virtues, at once we are free ; 

But desert thou, or shrink, and as surely we 
perish — 
For man takes the tone of his spirit from thee. 



VIII. 

Then, oh ! if you'd teach us once more to re- 
cover 
The glory that erst shed its light on your 
brow. 
Bend away from your lutes the soft strings of 
the lover, 
And sing us no songs b\x\i ol ^ ^)EiSs;\A^cs.T) 
now» 



4 POEMS OF 

. IX. 

A spirit is moving in light o'er the waters, 
And he shouts through the stormy applause 
of the waves, 

^^How longy beloved landy shall thy glori(ms daughters 
Be consorts or mothers of spiritless slaves T' 

X. 

Oh, rock-girdled Freedom ! adored by the 
Eoman, 
In woman's dear form descend on our fanes, 
And the mountains shall dance at the fall of 
the foeman. 
To earthVheav'nliest music — the breaking of 
chains. 



THE GATHERING OF LEINSTEK. 

A.D. 1643. 

I. 
Serf ! with thy fetters overladen, 

Why crouch you in dastardly woe 1 
Why weep o'er thy chains like a maiden, 

Nor strike for thy manhood a blow 1 
Not thus would our fathers bemoan us — 

When Tyranny raised the lash, then 
Tliejr practised the '^ Lex Tdic/m" 
O/Feidlim, and lash'd it again. 



RICHARD d'aLTON WILLIAMS. 



II. 

For this did they humble the Roman, 

Aad was it, pale Helots, in vain 
That Malachy trampled the foeman, 

And Brian uprooted the Dane ? 
Ye Kings of our Isle's olden story, 

Bright spirits of demi-god men ! 
We swear by the graves of your glory 

To strike like your children again. 

IIL 

Tho' beside us no more in the trial 

The swords of our forefathers wave, 
The multiplied soul of O'Nial 

Has flashed through our patriot Brave. 
By each rock where our proud heroes slumber. 

Each grove where the grey Druid sung, 
No foreigner's chain shall encumber 

The race from such ancestors sprung. 

IV. 

Ye swords of the kingly Temora, 

Exalt the bright green of your sod — 
The hue of the mantle of Flora — 

The Emerald banner of God 1 
Leave, reaper, the fruits of thy labour — 

Spare, huntsman, the prostrated game, 
Till the ploughshare is wrought lo a ^^Jtix^ 

To carve out this plague-spot ot a\v«iiXXi^. 



6 POEMS OF 

V. 

£ush down from the mountain, fortalice — 

From banquet, and bridal, and bier — 
From ruin of cloister, and palace, 

Arise ! with the torch and the spear I 
By the ties and the hopes that we cherish- 

The loves and the shrines we adore, 
High heaven may doom us to perish — 

But, nevefi* to slavery more ! 



THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF. 
GOOD FRIDAY, lOU. 

As the world's Redeemer hung 

On a tree this day to save. 
In His love, each tribe and tongue 
From the thraldom of the grave, 
We vow — attest, ye Heavens ! — by His gore, 
To snap the damning chain 
Of this Christ-blaspheming Dane 
Who defiles each holy fane we adore. 



But — death to Erin's pride — 

Amid Sitric's host behold 
Ma/mordha'a squadron ride, 
Who betray, for Danish gold, 



RICHARD D*ALTON WILLIAMS. 

Their country, virtue, fame, and their souls ; 
" False traitors ! hy the rood, 
Ye shall weep such waves of blood 

As in winter's spring-tide flood ocean rolls." 

Thus spoke our wrathful king 

As he drew Kincora's sword. 
And abroad he bade them fling 
The emblazonry adored — 
The mystic sun arising on the gale ; 
And a roar of joy arose 
As they bent a wood of bows. 
On thy godless robber foes, Innisfail I 

The fierce Vikinger now 

On the dreadful Odin calls, 
And the gods of battle bow 
From Valhalla's cloudy halls, 
And bend them o'er the dim "feast of shells. 
But, like drops of tempest rain, 
The innumerable slain 
Of the traitor and the Dane strew the dells. 

Clontarf ! a sea of blood 

Bushes purple from thy shore. 
And the billow's rising flood 
Is repelled hy waves of gore. 



8 POEMS OF 

That fling a sanguine blush o'er the tide. 

We have drawn the sacred sword 

Of green Eire and the Lord, 
And have crushed the sea-kings' horde in their 
pride. 

Kise ! Euler of the North ! 

Terrific Odin rise 1 
Let thy stormy laughter forth 
Burst in thunder from the skies — 
Prepare, for heroes slain, harp and shell ! 
For we crowd thy feast to-night 
With the flower of ocean's might, 
Who, in Freedom's burning sight, blasted fell ! 

There lie the trampled Dane, 

And the traitor prince's band 
Who could brook a foreign chain 
On the green Milesian land, 
Where immortal beauty reigns evermore ; 
And the surf is bloody red 
Where the proud barbarian bled. 
Or with terror winged fled from our shore. 

Such ever be the doom 

Of the tyrant and the slave — 
Be their dark unhonoured tomb 
'^eatb the falcbiona of the brave, 



RICHARD D'aLTON WILLIAMS. 9 

Who, fired with freedom's soul, clasp the brand 

O goddess thrice divine ! 

Be our isle again thy shrine, 
And renew the soul of Brian through the land ! 



THE EATH OF MULLAGHMA.ST. 

0*EU the Eath of Mullaghmast, 
On the solemn midnight blast, 
What bleeding spectres passed, 

With their gashed breasts bare 1 
Hast thou heard the fitful wail 
That o'erloads the sullen gale, 
When the waning moon shines pale 

0*er the curst ground there 1 

Hark I hollow moans arise 

Through the black tempestuous skies. 

And curses, strife, and cries. 

From the lone Eath swell ; 
For bloody Sydney there 
Nightly fills the lurid air 
With th' unholy pomp and ^w:^ 
Of the foul, deep heW. 



10 POEMS OF 

He scorches up the gale, 
With his knights, in fiery mail ; 
And the banners of the Pale 

O'er the red ranks rest. 
But a wan and gory band 
All apart and silent stand, 
And they point th* accusing hand 

At that hell-hound's crest ! 



Bed streamlets, trickling slow, 
O'er their clotted cuUins flow, 
And still and awful woe 

On each pale brow weeps — 
Rich bowls bestrew the ground, 
And broken harps around, 
Whose once enchanting sound 

In the bard's blood sleeps. 



False Sydney 1 knighthood's stain, 
The trusting brave in vain — 
Thy guests — ride o'er the plain 

To thy dark cow'rd snare. 
Flow'r of OflFaly and Leix, 
They have come thy board to grace- 
jF'ooJs } to meet a faithless race 

Save with true sworda bate. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 11 

While cup and song abound, 

The triple Hnes surround 

The closed and guarded mound, 

In the night's dark noon. 
Alas ! too brave 0*More, 
Ere the revelry was o'er 
They have spilled thy young heart's gore. 

Snatched from love too soon ! 



At the feast, unarmed all, 
Priest, bard, and chieftain fall 
In the treacherous Saxon's hall, 

O'er the bright wine-bowl ; 
And now nightly round the board, 
With UBsheath'd and reeking sword, 
Strides the cruel felon lord 

Of the blood-stained soul. 



Since that hour the clouds that passed 
O'er the Rath of Mullaghmast 
One tear have never cast 

On the gore-dyed sod ; 
For the shower of crimson rain 
That o'ei flowed that fatal plain 
Cries aloud, and not in vain, 
To the most high God. 



12 POEMS OF 

Though the Saxon snake unfold 
At thy feet his scales of gold, 
And vow thee love untold, 

Trust him not, Green Land ! 
Touch not with gloveless clasp 
A coiled and deadly asp, 
But with strong and guarded grasp 

In your steel-clad hand. 



THE LION AND THE SERPENT. 

AN ARMS-BILL FABLE. 

In days of old the Serpent came 

To the Lion's rocky hall. 
And the forest king spread the sward with game, 

And they drank at the torrent's fall ; 
And the Serpent saw that the woods were fair, 
And she longed to make her dwelling there. 

But she saw that her host had a knack of his 

own 
At tearing a sinew or cracking a bone, 

And had grinders unpleasantly strong ; 
So she said to herself : *' PU bamboozle the king 
With my plausible speech, and all that sort of 

thwg, 
That, since Eve, to my people "belon?;?' 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILUAMS. 13 

" Those claws and those grinders must certainly 

be 
Inconvenient to you as they're dreadful to me — 

Draw 'em out, like a love, Tm so 'frighted ! 
And, then, since I've long had an amorous eye ou 
Yourself and your property, dear Mr. Lion, 

We can be (spare my blushes) united,^* 

So subtle the power of her poisonous kisses, 
So deadly to honour the falsehood she hisses. 

The Lion for once is an ass. 
Before her, disarmed, the poor simpleton stands; 
The union's proclaimed, but the hymen'al bands 

Are ponderous fetters of brass. 

The Lion, self-conquered, is chained on the 

ground, 
And the breath of his tyrant sheds poison around 

The fame and the life of her slave. 
How long in his torture the stricken king lay 
Historians omit, but 'tis known that one day 

The serpent began to look grave. 

For, when passing, as usual, her thrall with a 

sneer. 
She Amsively biased some new taviiiVi va\icva ^^^i 
Be abook aU bia chains with a xoot •, 



14 POEMS OF 

And, observing more closely, she saw with much 

pain, 
That his tusks and his claws were appearing 

again ^ 
A fact she'd neglected before. 

From that hour she grew dangerously civile indeed, 
And declared he should be, ere long, totally freed 

From every dishonouring chain. 
*• The moment, my dearest^ our friend, the Fox, 

draws 
Those nasty sharp things from your Majesty's 
jaws, 
You must bound free as air o'er the plain." 

But the captive sprang from his dungeon floor, 
And he bowed the woods with a scornful roar. 

And his burning eyes flashed flame ; 
And as echo swelled the shout afar. 
The stormy joys of freedom's war. 

O'er the blast of the desert came. 

And the Lion laughed, and his mirth was loud 
As the stunning burst of a thunder cloud, 

And he shook his wrathful mane ; 
And hollow sounds from his lashed sides come, 
Like the sullen roll of a 'larum drum — 

He snapped like a reed the chain, 
And the Serpent saw that her reign was o'er, 
And^ hiiSisiDg, she fled from the Lion's roar. 



KICHARD D'ALTON WlLUAMd. 15 



LAMENT FOE CLARENCE MANGAN. 



** Oft with tears I've groaned to God for pitv, 
Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim, 
Oft sang unto Him a prayerful ditty, 
Oft, all lonely in this throngful city. 
Raised my soul to Him ; 
And from path to path His mercy tracked me, 

From many a peril snatched He me, 
When false friends pursued, betrayed, attacked me, 
When gloom overdarked, and sickness racked me. 
He was by to save and free." — 

James Clabencb Manoan. 



Yes 1 happy friend, the cross was thine ; 'tis 

o'er a sea of tears 
Predestined souls must ever sail to reach their 

native spheres. 
May Ohrist, the crowned of Calvary, who died 

upon a tree, 
Bequeath His tearful chalice and His bitter 

cross to me. 

The darkened land is desolate — a wilderness of 

graves — 
Our purest hearts are prison-bound, our exiles 

on the waves ; 
Gaunt Famine stalks the blasted plains — the 

pestilential air 
Celrhangs the gasp of breaking \ie^T\>^ ot ^\i^- 

ness of despair. 



16 POEMS OF 

The ebbing blood of Ireland is shed by foreign 

streamsi, 
Where our kiosmen wake lamenting when they 

see her in their dreams. 
Oh I happy are the peaceful dead — 'tis not for 

them we weep 
Whose troubled spirits rest at length in calmly 

laurelled sleep. 



No chains are on thy folded hands, no tears be- 
dim thine eyes, 

But round thee bloom celestial flowers in ever 
tranquil skies, 

While o'er our dreams thy mystic songs, faint, 
sad, and solemn, flow, 

Like light that left the distant stars ten thousand 
years ago. 



How sweet thy harp on every string — wild, 

tender, mirthful, grand, 
Of fairy pranks, of war, or love, or bleeding 

Fatherland ; 
And long the mournful caoina of Tyrconnell and 

Tyrone 
Like midnight waves on caverned coasts around 
their tombs shall moan. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLUMS. 17 

Still " boating down the Boaphorus," with thee 
we gaily go, 

And still the " elfin mariners " o'er tiny brook- 
lets row, 

The phantom "Lady Agnes" still roams in 
awful woe, 

And Irish hearts o'er " Cahal Mor " and " Eoisin 
Dubh " shall glow. 



Thou wert a voice of God on earth — of those 
prophetic souls 

Who hear the fearful thunder in the Future's 
womb that rolls, 

And the warnings of the angels, as the mid- 
night hurried past, 

Bushed in upon thy spirit, like a ghost-o'erladen 
blast. 



Then the woes of coming judgment on thy 

tranced vision burst, 
To call immortal vengeance on an age and land 

accurst ; 
For where is Faith, or Purity, or Heaven in us 

now ? 
In power alone the times believe — ^to gfAA. ^qx^^ 

tbey bow. 



18 POEMS OF 

If any shade of earthliness bedimined thy spirit's 

wings, 
Well cleansed thou art in sorrow's ever-salutary 

springs ; 
And even bitter suffering, and still more bitter 

sin, 
Shall only make a soul like thine more beautiful 

within. 



For every wound that humbles, if it do not all 

destroy, 
Shall nerve the heart for nobler deeds, and fit 

for purer joy ; 
As the demigod of fable-land, as olden legends 

say, 
fiose up more strong and Valorous each time he 

touched the clay. 



And wisely was a weakness with thine ecstasies 

allied — 
Thus Heaven would save a favourite child from 

God-dethroning pride. 
And teach the star-land dreamer that his 

visioned Milky Way 
Is but the feeble reflex of his Sire's transmitted 
ray. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 19 

As aforetime the apostle wept to bear an earthly 
thorn, 

While his raptured spirit floated through the 
portals of the mom ; 

For bards, like saints, have secret joys none 
other mortals know, 

And He who loves would chasten them in weak- 
ness and in woe. « 



Tears deck the soul with virtues, as soft rains 

the flow'ry sod. 
And the inward eyes are purified for clearer 

dreams of God ; 
'Tis sorrow's hand the temple-gates of holiness 

unbars ; 
By day we only see the earth, 'tis night reveals 

the stars. 



Alas ! alas ! the minstrel's fate I his life is short 

and drear, 
And if he win a wreath at last, 'tis but to shade 

a bier ; 
His harp is fed with wasted life — to tears its 

numbers flow — 
And strung with chords oi "bioksxi \kftax\» \^ 

dream-land^B splendid woe. 



20 POEMS OF 

But now — a cloud, a cloud transfigured, all 

luminous, auroral — 
Thou joinest the Trisagion of choired immortals 

choral, 
While all the little discords here but render 

more sublime 
The joybells of the universe from starry chime 

to chime. 



Father of the harmonies eternally that roll 
Life, light, and love to trillioned suns, receive 

the poet's soul ! 
And bear him in Thy bosom from this vale of 

tears and storms 
To swell the sphere-hymns thundered from the 

rushing starry swarms. 



In sacred lustre rolling where the constellated 
throngs 

Peal down through heaven's chasmata unutter- 
able songs, 

And myriad-peopled systems — beneath, around, 
above — 

Besonnd. with admiration — ^reverberate with 
love. 



RICHARD d'ALTON WILLIAMS. 21 

Sleep, happy friend ! The cross was thine — ^'tis 

o'er a sea of tears 
Predestined souls must ever sail to reach their 

native spheres. 
May Christ, the crowned of Calvary, who died 

upon a tree, 
Youchsafe His tearful chalice and His bitter 

cross to me ! 



DEDICATION OF THE HARP OF 
"THE NATION." 

Lord Gk)D ! from whom all minstrelsy of men 

and angels springs, 
Behold, the harp Thou gavest. Thy lowliest 

creature brings. 
And casts it down adoringly before Thine awful 

shrine, 
A suppliant beseeching Thee to make it wholly 

Thine. 
Oh ! cleanse, as erst Isaiah's lips were cleansed 

with living fire. 
From every dross of earthlineaa VXx^ ^wkafe^T^^*^ 

lyre; 



22 POEMS OF 

To Thee and Erin only, O God of Freedom ! 

swell 
Henceforth the hallowed breathings of the 

" sacred island shell.** . 



The judgment-speaking thunder-bolt goes forth 

at Thy command, 
And shouts the exulting hurricane along the 

groaning land ; 
And Thine the mighty melodies o'er arming 

lands that roll, 
When fettered man upsprings to wrench the 

iron from his soul 1 
Oh ! flash Thy smiles resplendently, thrice holy 

King of Kings ! 
And let Thy altar yield its flame to light the 

quivering strings, 
And each rich flood of ecstasy that falls from 

Eden, then, 
Back to its source in canticles of praise shall 

flow again. 



" Thy prayer is heard— descending, behold the 

sacred fire. 
And angel music breaking from out the trem- 
bling lyre. 



RICHARD D'aLTON WILLIAMS. 23 

Take down yon aged cla/rseach that sobs upon 

the gale, 
And pour the flood of Freedom's song o'er 

listening Innisfail." 
Lo ! the Supreme hath smiled on her whose 

raptured heart and lyre 
Hath sweetest sung to Him of all the bright 

seraphic choir. 
And swiftly down the steeps of Heaven she 

cleaves the yielding wind, 
And flashing thoughtlike from the Throne, 

leaves rushing worlds behind. 



She paused — oh 1 how divine thou art ! of 

heaven the fairest fair; 
And where Thy radiant presence is, the smile 

of God is there. 
Yes! Song descended gloriously — I saw the 

seraph glide 
In pure, unearthly loveliness all beaming to 

my side ; 
A fragrant breeze harmoniously around her 

pinions flowed, 
And starry sparks of emeiald. &£^ ix^m i^^'c^^ 

and chaplet glowed. 



24 POEMS OF 

loveliest of the daughters of the angel- 
bearing spheres ! 

One glinapse of Thy sweet smile repays the 
agony of years. 

And sure as heaven communes with man, and 
bows to sorrow's pow'r, 

Embodied Melody to me was visible that hour > 

And oft in haunted slumberings my chainless 
spirit sees 

That glorious vision undulate in music on the 
breeze, 

While green-robed bards encircle her — the 
spirits of our sires — 

And, bending down from rosy clouds, attune 
celestial lyres. 

The world may mock or misconceive the min- 
strel's wayward heart, 

And icy Wisdom frown upon his melancholy art; 

But Song, upon her eagle- wings, shall bear him 
oft abovC) 

All buoyant with enchanted dreams of freedom, 
heaven, and love ; 

And thou thyself, immortal queen ! his death- 
less bride shalt be, 

Who, spurning gold and braving chains, still 
fondly worabipa thee ! 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 25 



THE VISION. 

A NATIONAL ODE. 

Where iron rocks toVr o'er 
Th' Atlantic billows' roll, 
Prophetic muses bore 
The poet's raptured soul ; 
And Freedom rose in light from the spray. 
Behold her swiftly glide 
O'er the strong and reinless tide, 
And the surges' swelling pride round her play I 

Sublime the steeds rush on, 

Till panting next they stand 
On the brow of Slieve-na-Mon, 
In the Sparta of our land ; 
And^the stormy hills are moved at the sound. 
From Cashel's royal rock 
To Benburb is felt the shock, 
And the startled eagles flock, screaming round. 

As she moves along the plain, 

Like the march of ocean's wave^ 
Our martyred heroes a\dui 
Biae in armour from \M gcvi^ 



26 POEMS OF 

And they clash their phantom shields on the 
gale, 

The fires of rage and shame, 
Through their visors barred that came, 

Wrapt in wild unearthly flame hill and vale. 

From a throne of trampled crowns, 

On a mount of broken chains, 
The Aventine goddess frowns 
O'er the desolated plains 
Where of old a tyrant's horde plied the lash. 
She flung her brazen shield 
On the far illumined field, 
And the lofty mountains reeled with the clash. 

Clouds distent with gore 

Above her darkly hang — 
Lightnings leap before, 
Around her thunders clang, 
And marshalled tempests roar like the sea. 
Her splendour fills the air, 
And the nations, in its glare, 
By their broken altars swear to be free. 

Then our iron fetters fall 

Like poisoned weeds around, 
And lie inky as a pall 
On the stained and loalVuxig fg[iQ\»A\ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 27 

And the carrion-birds of heaven o'er them sail, 
While the sound of joyful bells 
On the laughing zeph3rr swells 

From thy glorious emerald dells, Innisfall. 

The sounding woods rejoice, 

And the waves around thee sing, 
And the tones of Freedom's voice 
Through thy ruined turrets ring j 
And thy buried monarchs smile from the spheres. 
And many a hallowed name, 
That long slept in silent shame, 
Now in characters of flame bright appears. 

Ul-Erin laughs above, 

O'er Shannon's wave below, 
And songs of joy and love 
Swell the melting airs that blow, 
Enamoured lingering long near thy shore ; 
Around dear Freedom's shrine 
Thy dewy shamrocks twine. 
And resound thy harps divine evermore ! 



28 POEMS OF 



A PROPHECY. 



Tributary powers ! assemble, while I sing our 

tyrant's fall ; 
Thou, too, proud one ! hear and tremble, 'tis 

the writing on the wall. 
Long time hast thou ruled the surges and the 

land with iron rod, 
Wielding in thy grasp the scourges of a justly 

wrathful God ! 

Vainly did the nations brave thee — kings be- 
fore thee bend the knee, 

For the Lord of battles gave thee empire on 
the subject sea. 

Few in virtue then could mate thee, Europe 
vied thy fame to swell ; 

Even I, who curse and hate thee, love thy 
former worth to tell. 

Now thou art a sink of evil — a serpent's nest — 

a tiger's den — 
An iron crowned and armed devil, ^'having 

power to torture men." 
Aged tyrant ! crime-o'erladen — Moloch ! gorged 

with blood and tears 
Of martyred brave and ruined maiden! mur- 
dereaa of a thousand years \ 



RICHARD d'ALTON WILLIAMS. 29 

fiapid ruin is without thee, putrid is thy heart 

within, 
All the world in arms about thee, and above 

the Judge of Sin ! 
Whither leads thy mad ambition 1 Bloated 

monster as thou art, 
Seest thou not each acquisition is a stab at 

thine own heart) 



Slave of gold — with pride besotted — all thy 

sterling glory gone, 
Thy social frame, a corse half rotted, of all the 

virtues knows not one. 
When the nations fiercely pressed thee, thou 

didst deign thy serfs a smile ; 
And we raised our chains and blessed thee that 

the lash reposed awhile. 



But we then should doubly sate thee with our 

best and noblest blood, 
Till 'tis virtue's crown to hate thee, foe to all 

that's pure and good ! 
Hadot ! drunk with countless slaughters, batched 

to the lips in gore. 
Weep thoa by the purple 'watew — -w^^^ \Jok«a3L 

never abalt thou mote \ 



30 POEMS OF 

See ! the foreign standard's planted o'er thy 

merchant-princes' halls ; 
And who never mercy granted now in vain for 

mercy calls. 
O'er thy regal marble arches, all his crimson 

, banners spread, 
Lo ! the victor fire-king marches, and they 

melt beneath his tread. 



Captured tower and temple labours 'gainst the 

matchless strength of fire, 
Whilst the clash of hostile sabres bids who 

fight or fly expire. 
Thro' the sacked and blazing city dome on dome 

in ruin falls, 
Kneel ! and curse, or pray for pity — where are 

now thy wooden walls 1 



Dar^st thou dream t^^'would embrace thee, save 

with flashing sword and torch, 
Thoo^ the charging Frank should chase thee 

to thy last red temple's porch ? 
If thou dost, by heaven ! thou errest ; trust 

me, mine are truer lays 
T/ian ever lying laureate lyrist sang^ or shall 
sjn£^, to thy praise. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 31 

Tis no minstrel's idle dreaming — there are 

signs that all may see, 
Flashes from the crater gleaming tell eruption 

soon must be. 
Mortal darkness closes round thee, crowns are 

falling from thy brow, 
Deadly sin hath nine times bound thee, heaven 

and earth abhor thee now. 
How like Satan's is thy story, future bards shall 

warping tell, 
When, from splendour's power and glory, guilt 

has dragged thee down to hell. 



THE MUNSTER WAR-SONG. 

A.D. 1190. 

Can the depths of the ocean afford you not 

graves. 
That you come thus to perish afar o'er the 

waves — 
To redden and swell the wild torrents that floTur 
Through the valley of vengQance, V\v^ ^"d^^^ 

Aberlow? 



32 POEMS OF 

The clangor of conflict o'erburthens the breeze, 
From the stormy Sliabh Bloom to the stately 

Gailtees ; 
Your caverns and torrents are purple with gore, 
Slievenamon, Gleann Colaich, and sublime 

Gailtee More ! 

The sunburst that slumbered, embalmed in our 

tears, 
Tipperary I shall wave o'er thy tall mountaineers ; 
And the dark hill shall bristle with sabre and 

spear, 
While one tyrant remains to forge manacles 

here. 

The riderless war-steed careers o'er the plain, 
With a shaft in his flank, and a blood-dripping 

mane — 
His gallant breast labours, and glare his wild 

eyes! 
He plunges in torture — falls — shivers — and dies. 

Let the trumpets ring triumph I the tyrant is 

slain ! 
He reels o'er his charger, deep-pierced through 

the brain ; 
And his myriads are flying like leaves on the 

gale— 
Bat who shall escape from our hilla with the tale? 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 33 

For the arrows of vengeance are showering like 

rain, 
And choke the strong rivers with islands of 

slain, 
Till thy waves, " lordly Shannon," all crimsonly 

flow, 
Like the billows of hell, with the blood of the 

foe. 

Ay ! the foemen are flying, but vainly they fly — 
Eevenge with the fleetness of lightning can vie. 
And the septs of the mountains spring up from 

each rock. 
And rush down the ravines like wolves on the 

flock. 

And who shall pass over the stormy Sliabh 
Bloom 

To tell the pale Saxon of tyranny's doom. 

When, like tigers from ambush, our fierce 
mountaineers 

Leap along from the crags with their death- 
dealing spears 1 

They came with high boasting to bind us as 

slaves ; 
But the glen and the torrent havQ^^^Ti^^^orc 

tbeir graves : 



34 POEMS OF 

From the gloomy Ard Fionnain to wild Team- 
poll Mor — 

From the Suir to the Shannon — is red with their 
gore. 

By the soul of Heremon ! our warriors may 

smile, 
To remember the march of the foe through our 

isle; 
Their banners and harness were costly and gay, 
And proudly they flashed in the Summer sun's 

ray. 

The hilts of their falchions were crusted with 

gold, 
And the gems of their helmets were bright to 

behold ; 
By Saint Bride of Kildare ! but they moved in 

fair show — 
To gorge the young eagles of dark Aherlow 1 



RICHABD D'ALTON WILUAMS. 35 



THE LEINSTER WAR-SONG. 

9 

Bondsmen! Compatriots! scoffof the stranger! 
Grasp the war-torch and the chain-breaking 
sword j 
Or crouch, like lashed hounds, at the foreigner's 
manger, 
And lick the red scourge of your Sassenach 
lord! 

Lo ! thy proud chivalry, Leinster, advances ! 

Wildly the JRosg-CatJm * swells from the glen ; 
The dance of thy banners — the flash of thy 
lances — 

Awake Alleluiahs again and again. 

Rouse you! — for shame! — from the slumber of 
ages. 
Sons of the murdered, by forest and caves — 
Shout like the ocean when fierce tempest rages, 
Eise with the strength of ten millions of 
waves ! 



* LiteraUy the " Eye of Battle," the glorious " in- 
centive to the fight," the war-song of the batd Vi^isst^ 
whose ** Sea of Passion " the waixioT T\xa\v«i^ Vi ^^^iJCsv 
er riotory. 



36 POEMS OF 

Light your war-brands at the flame of Kildara — 
The ** Sunburst " has flapped her green wings 
on the gale ! 
Take down the harp from the ruins of Tara, 
And strike forth the march of arrayed Innis- 
faU! 

Sound a loud hymn j for the gathering nation, 

Surging and murmuring, heaves like the sea ; 
Sound! and full soon the glad harp-strings' 
vibration 
Shall chime to the chorus of millions made 
free ! 

By the crimson Clontarf, and the Lifley's dark 
water- 
By shore, vale, and stream, with our hearts' 
blood that runs ! — 
By Barrow and Boyne, conflagration and slaugh- 
ter 
Shall toss their red plumes in the blaze of our 
gunsl 

Ere for life the pale dastard his liberty barters, 
Let him pause — for each sod is a patriot's 

tomb; 
And if green are our vales, 'twas the blood of 

our martyrs 

Uaricbed them tor aye with that emerald 
bloom» 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 37 

Bat go, living corse, and kneel down to the 
stranger,, 

In thy festering cerement of infamy rolled — 
Go I traitor and cow'rd, in our deadliest danger, 

Sell country and soul to the Saxon for gold ! 



Oh ! burning reproach ! — to such damning pros- 
tration 
Has the fetter corroded God's image away, 
That, while curses and groans overwhelm the 
nation. 
The saeering destroyer is hailed on his way 9 



O'Toole and the Geraldine, Eustace, OTarrell — 
Chiefs who led Leinster to conquest of yore — 

O'Byme, MacMorragh, O'Melachlin, O'Carrol, 
Plunket, and Nugent, OTaly, O'More — 



Shall we crouch on the plains where your sharp 
sabres^ clashing, 
lit the spring-tide of battle's magnificent flow, 
As in midnight's deep gloom, o'er the stormy 
wave flashing, 
The bale-Grea of ruin exultingly ^on? ^ 



38 POEMS OF 

Oh ! never, by heaven ! the nation hath spoken, 

" The foul foreign idol shall fall on oar plains, 

If bolts forged in hell by man's might can be 

broken ; 

If not, we can perish — 'The grave has no 

chains.' " 



And sweet, for green Erin, to fall crushed and 
gory, 
In some vale shamrock-spangled that honour 
illumes, 
That valour has hallowed to freedom and glory, 
And sleep, like the brave, in the proud 
" Pass of Plumes." 



WESTERN WAR-SONG. 

Lo ! Freedom again hath appeared on our hills, 

Already the isle her^divinity fills ; 

The harp wakes — the sword rattles — and kindles 

the brand. 
While the breeze of her wings passeth over the 
laad. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 39 

From the rock-guarded mountains — her cradle 

and throne — 
She moves in her splendour — she moves not 

alone ; 
For myriads, unsheathing the chain-breaking 

sword, 
Now hail the bright vision long vainly adored. 



The war's nightly blaze from the mountain shall 

rise, 
And thine oriflamme, Ruin ! stream red to the 

skies, 
Till, numberless thronging, with torches and 

swords. 
We chase back to ocean these foreigner hordes. 



When the foul fetter clanks on the son of the 

hills, 
His frame with the rage of a chafed tiger 

thrills. 
With clenched hand, compressed lip, and fiercely 

knit brow, 
Could a Aarness of adamant \)afflL^ \vvtcl tio^ ^ 



40 POSMS OF 

No I thirsting to madness, red vengeance will 

pass, 
Like the cloud's subtile fire, thro' a fortress of 

brass. 
Let cannon blaze round him, or white billows 

flow. 
He will reach thro' them all the heart's blood of 

his foe. 

Dost think Gonnemara's dark fishers can fear 
The battle, who nightly thro' hurricanes steer — 
Who unmoor the frail 8ki£f from the Pins' 

barren sod. 
To struggle with ocean, the war-horse of God? 

From the Giant's spar caves ; from the stormy 

Kilkee ; 
From where Moher frowns over the fathomless 

sea; 
Where the cliffs of Baltard mock the strength 

of the waves. 
And the tempest round Arran indignantly 

raves; 

Shall come forth, to combat, a fetterless race, 
Whom the rocks of the West bear to ocean's 

embrace — 
Whose spirits, like tempests, resistless and free, 
Proclaim them the terrible bohb oi Vhi^ «e»^. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 41 

Not the phalanx of Sparta, for threshold and 

shrine, 
More nobly has battled, my country, than thine ; 
Our cause is as holy, our bosoms as true — 
And Erin may have her Thermopylae too. 



IRISH WAR-SONG. 

A.D. 1689. 

We come with drum and fife 

And the banner of the green, 
And our arms for the strife, 

They are glorious in their sheen. 
No cause have we to tremble, I trow— - 
Outnumbering the waves 
O'er which the tempest raves 
Let the Saxon hireling slaves 

Tremble now. 

Then onward while you may 

Like an ocean in its might — 
Let the Saxon war-trumps bray. 

For God defends the right. 
And on our efforts looks with a smile. 
For the land of saints arise, 
Spread the green flag to the sHqe^ 
And the hated tyrant) ^^^ 



42 POEMS OF 

By the margin of the shore 

Let our serried thousands stand 
As our fathers stood of yore 

'(rainst the light-haired Danish band. 
Let us meet them as they come from the deep 
And the sea-bird soon shall shriek, 
And the wild waves soon will break 
O'er the spot where tyrants take 

Their last sleep. 



IRISH WAR-SONG. 

Bright sun, before whose glorious ray, 

Our pagan fathers bent the knee ; 
Whose pillar-altars yet can say 

When time was young our sires were free — 
Who saw'st our later days' decree — 

Our matrons* tears — our patriots' gore ! 
We swear, before high Heaven and thee, 

The Saxon holds us slaves no more ! 

Our sunburst on the Roman foe 
Flashed vengeance once in foreign field ; 

On Glontarf s plains lay scathed low 
What power the sea-kings fierce could wield ; 

Benburb might say whose cloven shield 

'ISTeath bloody hoofs was trampled o'er ; 
Aad, by these memories high, we "ji^ld 

Oar limha to Saxon chains no moi^X 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 43 

The clarseach wild, whose trembling string 

Had long the " song of sorrow " spoke, 
Shall bid the wild Rosg-Catha sing 

The curse and crime of Saxon yoke. 
And by each heart his bondage broke — 

Each exile's sigh on distant shore — 
Each martyr 'neath the headsman's stroke — 

The Saxon holds us slaves no more ! 

Send the loud war-cry o'er the main ; 

Your sunburst to the breezes spread 1 
That slogan rends the heaven in twain ; 

The earth reels back beneath your tread ! 
Ye Saxon despots, hear, and dread — 

Your march o'er patriot hearts is o'er : 
That shout hath told, that tramp hath said. 

Our country's sons are slaves no more ! 



THE MOUNTAIN WAR-SONG. 

A.D. 1690. 

War-harp of Erin ! I strike thee again, 
To echo the challenge of mountaineer men, 
While they climb the tall summits, and gazing 

afar, 
Shouts aloud for the foeman and ^aci^i iox NiXi^ 
war. 



44 POEMS OF 

Islander Chivalry ! forth with the sword ! 
Yon cloud veils the march of a barbarous horde. 
The van of the tyrant, deploying, appears — 
Oh ! heard you the trumpet, Slieve Bloom 
Mountaineers ? 

Chase no more the wild deer — nobler game for 
the brave 

Is to hunt from your valleys the tyrant and 
slave ; 

The wolf is at bay that despoiled you long 
years — 

Unmuzzle the wolf-hound, Barnane Moun- 
taineers ! 

No more shall the rifle swift eagles destroy 
On the rough Gurraw Thule or the wild Clande- 

boy; 
There are quarries enow for your bullets and 

spears, 
When the bugle sings — " Charge them !" Galtee 

Mountaineers. 

The flower of the mountains in panoply come. 
With the pomp of the banner and roll of the 

drum; 
And from pikeman to marksman — from centre 

to wings — 
The laughter oi trumpets victoriouaVf im^. 



RICHARD d' ALTON WILLIAMS. 45 

The curvetting chargers are prancing in pride, 
And the plumes of the troopers are toss'd like 

the tide, 
Foul despots of Erin ! alas for your chain, 
When your tempest-like cavalry charge o'er the 

plain. 

Green pillars of Heaven ! huge cloud-bearing 

hills ! 
What crimson tinge reddens your far-flashing 

rills 1 
And what mean the shriekings by torrent and 

wood. 
As when vultures exult in the perfume of 

blood 1 



Knockanoora, the verdant, has drunk a red 

rain, 
And Keeper, gigantic, is burthened with slain, 
And cloven the casque is, and broken the arrow, 
On the blood-crusted crags of thy mountains, 

Duharrow. 

Woe ! woe I for the tyrant — ^his bloodhounds 

are slain, 
His scourges are trampled audi ^^^i^^ *Oci.^ 

chain ; 



46 POEMS OF 

And the monster, long drunk with our gore 
and our tears, 

In your fierce ire hath perished, arrayed Moun- 
taineers 1 

12th August, 184a 



THE CAPTIVITY. 

In the holy midnight hour, 

When the soul expands her wings, 
And, eluding matter's power, 
To her native Heaven springs, 
I gazed upon the earth from the spheres : 
A calm is on the deeps, 
And the land in silence sleeps. 
Save where Erin's genius weeps hopeful tears. 

Around what favoured shrine 
Does that gentle halo dwell, 
And guardian spirits shine 1 
'Tis the tyrant's dungeon cell. 
Where the tribunes of the people lie in chains ; 
But when the embracing sea 
Shall clasp a land made free, 
TAe bolieat tbia shall be oi out ian^E. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 47 

The mellow moonlight streams 

Thro' the grated loophole rows, 
Where lapped in blissful dreams 
The nation's chiefs repose, 
While fancy paints or pales lip and brow. 
On the chieftain's front admire 
How pathos, scorn, and ire. 
And wit's electric fire tremble now. 



And in yonder visioned cell 

The sleeping minstrel hears 
The harp of Ossian swell, 

And the clash of Tara's spears, 
And Kinkora pouring storm on the Dane ; 
Saw you Cathal's bloody hand, 
And victorious Dathy's band, 
And the shades round Fingal's land, that com- 
plain. 

" Shall I string my harp to war ]" 

The voice of Ossian said — 
" Hath not every rusted bar 
Of the gratings o'er your head 
A voice to thrill the hearts of the land 9 
And the dwellers on the deep, 
Or the mountain's heatViery ^leo^, 
In wildly pictured sleep grasp tVi^ \>TWi^. 



48 POEMS OF 

And sounds of solemn prayer 

Through the stilly night arise. 
Making musical the air 
As they tremble to the skies, 
For suffering millions cry to the Lord — 
« Terrible and Strong ! 
How long, God, how long, 
Ere Thou purge our isle from wrong by the 
sword V* 

And maid and matron kneel 
By the altars of their sires. 
But their kinsmen gleam in steel 
By the glare of signal fires ; 
And the sword is half unsheathed in each hand — 
Oh, did not the Chieftain will 
That these swords should slumber still, 
Who could find one bloodless rill in the land 1 

But cast from every hill 

Your watchfires on the deep — 
Let the harp of war be still, 

And too eager Vengeance sleep ! 
We reck not, say the chiefs, blade nor gun ; 
For mind — our spear and shield — 
Is the god-like power we wield, 
And from kings and hosts the field shall be 
won. 

*/u/yWh, 1844, 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 49 



THE EXTERMINATION. 



" Dominas pupillum et viduam suscipiet." — Ps. 145. 



When tyranny's pampered and purple-clad 
minions 
Drive forth the lone widow and orphan to 
die, 
Shall no angel of vengeance unfurl his red 
pinions, 
And grasping sharp thunderbolts, rush from 
on high 1 

" Pity ! oh, pity ! — a little while spare me ; 

My baby is sick — I am feeble and poor ; 
In the cold winter blast, from the hut if you 
tear me, 

My lord, we must die on the desolate moor!" 



'Tis vain — for the despot replies but with 
laughter, 
While rudely his serfs thrust her forth on the 
wold : 
Her cabin is blazing from threshold to rafter, 
And she crawls o'er the mount&ln^ «Ask^ 
weepiDg, and cold. 



60 POEMS OP 

Her thinly-clad child on the stonny hill shivers — 
The thunders are pealing dread anthems 
around — 
Loud roar in their anger the tempest-lashed 
rivers — 
And the loosened rocks down with the wild 
torrents bound. 

Vainly she tries in her bosom to cherish 

Her sick infant boy, 'mid the horrors around, 
Till, faint and despairing, she sees her babe 
perish- 
Then lifeless she sinks on the snow-covered 
ground. 

Though the children of Ammon, with trumpets 

and psalters, 
To devils poured torrents of innocents' gore, 
Let them blush from deep hell at the far redder 

altars 
Where the death-dealing tyrants of Ireland 

adore 1 

But, for Erin's life-current, thro' long ages 
flowing, 
Dark demons that pierce her, you yet shall 
atone ; 
Even now the volcano beneath you is glowing, 
And the Moloch of tyranny reels on his 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 51 

STEADY.* 

Steady ! Host of freedom, steady 1 
Ponder, gather, watch, mature ; 

Tranquil be, though ever ready — 
Prompt to act — and to endure. 

Aimless, rage you not, insanely, 

Like a maniac with his chain, 
Struggling madly, therefore vainly, 

And lapsing back to bonds again. 

But, observe, the clouds o'er Keeper 

Long collect their awful ire — 
Long they swell more dark and deeper — 

When they burst all heaven 's on fire ! 

Freedom's bark to port is running. 
But beware the lurking shelves ; 

And would you conquer tyrant's cunning, 
Brethren, conquer first yourselves. 

Though thy cheek insulted bum — 
Though they call thee coward-slave — 

Scoff nor blow shalt thou return : 
Trust me, this is more than brave. 

* "Courage — ^your most necesB^iry Vvrtixxa — Q)aos£\sX* 
nob in bliad resistance, but in knowViv!^ 'wV'exv \ft Vst- 
»ear. "— 7%^ Nation, June 17tT[i, 1%4S. 



52 POEMS OF 

Fortitude hath shackles riven, 
More than spear or flashing gun ; 

Freedom, like the thrones of heaven, 
Is by suffring virtue won. 

Though thy brother still deride thee, 
Yield thou love for foolish hate : 

He'll, perhaps, ere long beside thee, 
Proudly, boldly, share thy fate. 

Discord ! may kind angels chase thee 
Far from hapless Erin's shores, 

And the deepest hell embrace thee, 
Where no fouler demon roars. 

Steady ! steady ! ranks of Freedom, 
Pure and holy are our bands ; 

Heaven approves, and angels lead them, 
For truth and justice are our brands. 



FALL, FLAG OF TYRANTS ! 

Fall, flag of tyrants ! never more 

To rise on Irish plains ! 
Thy sun is set — thy reign is o'er — 

The earth is sick of chains. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 53 

The meteor sign whose ghastly flame 

In fatal shadow cast us, 
Shall leave alone a hated name, 
And running down, in guilt and shame, 
To fires accurst from whence it came. 

No more shall plague and blast us. 

Beneath thy foul Cimmerian gloom, 

A thousand deadly poisons show'ring, 
The darkened land is one wide tomb. 
Whose charnel-chambers scarce have room 
To lodge the blackening host o'er whom 

Thy life-eclipsing shade is low'ring. 
Ocean's fairest, richest daughter. 

In thy fell embraces cast. 
Thou hast chained and, shrieking, brought her. 
To thy den of horrid slaughter ; 
But, for all that thou hast wrought her. 

Triple vengeance cometh fast. 

In power, in pride, in pomp, and gold, 
Thou art — and so is Satan — ^great ; 

But now, even now, mine eyes behold 
The signals of approaching fate — 
The mortal and immortal hate 
That gathers round t>\rj i8^tk^%\AXA<k 

Like tempest round ttve «aaB^^ t^^^» 



54 POEMS OF 

Columbia on the seas 
Prepares the thunders of thy fall. 

Exulting Afghan and Chinese 

Shall hear and bless the battle-breeze ; 

And we — we owe thee more than these, 
By heaven ! we'll pay thee all. 



Our ships are rotting on the strand, 

While thine bring o'er the seas 
Bayonets to till the blighted land, 
And swords to soothe disease ; 
And brutal rage and ruffian lust 
To trample truth in bloody dust, 
Till men blaspheme " Can God be just, 
Yet bear such crimes as these)" 



Oh ! since a thoughtful silent boy 

Upon the hills I dreamed, | 

My soul beheld with prophet joy ] 

My bound and bleeding love redeemed ; 

The Irish flag above us streamed. 

And Irish swords for freedom gleamed 
Z/Ae ligbtDing to destroy. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 55 

She comes I she comes I thrice hail young 
queen ! 

Around her throne a burning zone 
Of native swords is seen. 

death ! to us where is thy sting ] 

If while victorious clarions ring 

At freedom's feet our hearts we fling, 
And fall in Irish green. 

March \%th 1848. 



GRATIAS AGAMUS. 

A PiEAN TO ENGLAND. 

Children of the slain ! 

While we fall beneath the swords, 
Let us sing a grateful strain, 

As behoves us, to our lords — 
Glory be to England ! 

By the blood at Wexford cross 
That the hounds of Cromwell shed, 

And the shrieking babes they t>()%% 
On their lances, murdei-Tei — 
Glory be to £ng\aTi^\ 



56 POEMS OF 

By our Sarsfield's magic blade — 
By the capture of Athlone — 

And by Limerick, the betrayed, 
That could never be overthrown — 
Glory be to England ! 

Sons of murdered sires ! 

By the tortures of the past — 
By the glare of penal fires — 

By the Eath of Mullaghmast — 
Glory be to England ! 

By your traders unemployed — 
By your ancient glory flown — 

By your majesty destroyed, 
And your senate overthrown — 
Let us shout for England ! 

By the still remaining scars 

On the Werford hills that Wed- 
By your blood, in foreign wars, 
For a foreign tyrant shed — 

Let us kneel to England I 

By the ghastly myriads sleeping 

In a coffinless repose, 
And the dying-living weeping 

For God's jaatice on our foes — 
Let U8 die for England \ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 57 

By the curses that have risen 
From the gibbets and the graves — 

From the poorhouse and the prison, 
Where we starve disarmed slaves — 
Let us worship England 1 

By the seven hundred years 
We have dragged the weary chain, 

Till in ceaseless blood and tears 
It is rusted nigh in twain — 

Let us cherish England 1 

By the God of Freedom, bending 
From His judgment seat of power, 

And His burning spirit sending 
O'er the trembling land this hour — 
Let us — humble England ! 



THE PATRIOT BRAVE. 

I DRINK to the valiant who combat 
For freedom by mountain or W8.v^ \ 

And may triumpli attend, Yik^ ^ ^^<^^<* 
The sword of tVie patriot >otwe^\ 



58 POEMS OF 

Oh ! never was holier chalice 

Than this at our festivals crowned — 
The heroes of Morven, to pledge it, 
And gods of Valhalla, float round. 
Hurrah for the patriot brave ! 
A health to the patriot brave ! 
And a curse and a blow be to liberty's foe, 
Whether tyrant, or coward, or knave. 



Great spirits, who battled in old time 

For the freedom of Athens, descend ! 
As low to the shadow of Brian 

In fond hero-worship we bend. 
From those that in far Alpine passes 
Saw Dathi struck down in his mail, 
To the last of our chiefs' galloglasses. 
The saffron-clad foes of the Pale, 
Let us drink to the patriot brave ; 
Hurrah for the patriot brave ! 
But a curse and a blow be to liberty's foe, 
And more chains for the satisfied slave. 



O Liberty 1 hearts that adore thee 

Pour out their best blood at thy shrine. 
As freely as gushes before thee 
TAj3 purple iibation of wine. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 69 

For US, whether destined to triumph, 

Or bleed as Leonidas bled, 
Cnished down by a forest of lances 
On mountains of foreigner dead. 
May we sleep with the patriot brave ! 
God prosper the patriot brave ! 
But may battle and woe hurry liberty's foe 
To a bloody and honourless grave ! 



HERE'S A CHORUS. 

Here's a chorus 1 — Irish slaves — 

End your quarrels ! — end your quarrels ! 
Thunders roll from Emmet's grave — 

Chains or laurels ! — chains or laurels ! 
Hear the gory shade of Tone — 

End your quarrels ! — end your quarrels ! 
Freedom loves the brave alone, 

Chains or laurels ! — chains or laurels ! 

Union makes the nations great, 

End your quarrels ! — end your quarrels ! 
By the graves of Ninety-eight, 

Chains or laurels ! — chains or laurels ! 
Strike together, one and all — 

End your quarrels 1 — end your quarrels ! 
More than Cashel's rock gball M\. 

Cbaina or laurels I — chains ox \a»x^^\ 



60 POBMS OF 

By a thousand fields of bloody 

End your quarrels ! — end your quarrels ! 
Where your sires for freedom stood — 

Chains or laurels ! — chains or laurels ! 
Wherefore kneel we in the dust ) 

End your quarrels ! — end your quarrels ! 
Steel is true and God is just. 

Chains or laurels! — chains or laurels ! 



HAND IN HAND. 



Our bounteous God gave the fertile sod 

To sustain His people well, 
And not that you of a vampire few 

Should make this earth a hell. 
We are not brutes whom your pleasure suits 

To harness, to lash, and spurn, 
But love for love, all tribes above, 

And hate for hate, return. 

Come ! hand in hand, at Heaven's command, 
Whose voice through the people * rolls, 

Let us bravely stand for our lives and land. 
And prove that men have souls I 



* Vox populi, vox Dei. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 61 

Must we live and die in the pauper's stye, 

The sweltering poorhouse den, 
Where your pride and lust and rapine thrust 

The souls of immortal men ] 
And then you prate of their brutal state, 

WhoVe made them the things they are — 
By the Hosts on High, it were better to die 

A thousand times in war ! 

Then hand in hand, at Heaven's command, 
Whose voice through the people rolls, 

Let us bravely stand for our lives and land, 
And prove that men have souls ! 

O sons of men, called of prophet pen — 

Than angels scarcely less — 
Who can trace one sign of a birth divine 

In your woeful wretchedness ] 
Man, maid, and boy know not hope nor joy ; 

The light from your eyes has flown — 
All peace and love have soared above. 

And your hearts are turned to stone. 

Yet hand in hand, at Heaven's command. 
Whose voice through the millions roUa^ 
Let us bravely stand for out \\ve^ wxSiVwA^ 
And prove that men have aou\»\ 



62 POEMS OF 

We have many a bed of Wicklow lead, 

And stronger Leitrim veins, 
Whence the iron ore may make something 
more, 

Perchance, than bolts and chains. 
If the scythe and spade, like an iron blade, 

Should rust 'neath the landlord's heel. 
There are gows * enow in the land, I know, 

To turn them both to steel ! 

Then hand in hand, at Heaven's command, 
Whose voice through the millions rolls, 

Let us bravely stand for our lives and land, 
And prove that men have souls ! 

The young ash trees shall dance on the breeze, 

In the strife for the soil to join, 
And the forests of larch take life, and march 

From the Suir and the storied Boyne. 
At length we stand, an united band. 

Prepared to die or do — 
If no gentler hand can save the land, 

We'll have O'Neill's lamh ruadh. 

And hand in hand, at Heaven's command. 
Whose voice through the people rolls. 

We'll bravely stand for our lives and land, 
And prove that men have souls. 



Biacksmitha. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 63 

From Tyrawley, too, "Lamh lauder aboo !" 

Shall be heard like a larum-drum, 
And a burning sleet and a winding sheet 

Portend your hour is come — 
Your hour of doom; from their shroudless 
tomb 

Shall rise your victims slain, 
Whose guiltless blood, an awful flood, 

Shall fall in a fiery rain — 

When hand in hand, at Heaven's command, 
Whose voice even death controls, 

We bravely stand for our lives and land. 
And prove that men have souls. 

The dark winds blow, and the grave-lights 
glow. 

And the sky hath a feverish glare. 
As to and fro in woe they go. 

On the labouring midnight air ; 
Then the troubled hosts of our brethren's 
ghosts 

With a sound like unsheathing swords, 
On the blast aghast have passed up fast 

To the throne of the Lord of Lords I 

Swear hand in hand, at Heaven's command. 
Whose voice through the storm-wind roU&^ 

To braveJj sfcand for your Uvea widiY^XL^ 
And prove that men have ao\xV». 



64 POEMS OF 

KLING! KLANGl 

Kling! Klans:! 
Health to the brave ! 
Let the wine wave 

O'er the brim stand — 
Drink to the brave 

Of the Emerald land ! 
Kling ! Klang ! drink to the brave I 

Love to the fair ! 

By the rich lips and hair 

Of the maidens we prize, 
And the deeds we will dare 

!Por the love in their eyes — 
Kling ! Klang ! drink to the fair ! 

Peace to the true ! 
Their blood fell like dew 

On our every plain ; 
Brothers, for you 

Did they shed it in vain ? 
No ! no ! by the graves of the true ! 

Strength to our own ! 
Emmet and Tone 

Sleep not on the bier : 
Our hearts are their throne, 
And their spirit is here — 
^Iwg I Klang ! strength to out o^ii\ 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILUAMS. 65 

Hai] to the Green I 
Soon to be seen 

O'er mountain and glen, 
As it often hath been, 

Triumphant again — 
Kling ! Klang ! hail to the Green I 

Joy to the free I 
Exult as the sea I 

The hills are thy throne, 
And thou bendest the knee 

To Jehovah alone — 
Kling ! Klang ! joy to the free I 



ADIEU TO INNISFAIL. 



" Feror exul in altum." — ViB. 



Adieu I — The snowy sail 
Swells her bosom to the gale, 
And our bark from Innisfail 

Bounds away. 
While we gaze upon thy shore 
That we never shall see more, 
And the blinding teaia ftoTiv o'^x^ 

"We piaj •. — 



-a 



66 POEMS OF 

Ma vuirneen I be thou long 
In peace the queen of song — 
In battle proud and strong 

As the sea. 
Be saints thine offspring still. 
True heroes guard each hill, 
And harps by every rill 

Sound free I 



Though round her Indian bowers 
The hand of nature showers 
The brightest, blooming flowers 

Of our sphere ; 
Yet not the richest rose 
III an alien clime that blows, 
Like the briar at home that grows 

Is dear. 



Though glowing breasts may be 
In soft vales beyond the sea, 
Yet ever, gra ma chree, 

Shall I wail 
For the heart of love I leave. 
In the dreary hours of eve, 
On tby atormy shores to grieve, 

Innisi&il \ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 67 

But mem'ry o'er the deep 

On her dewy wing shall sweep, 

When in midnight hours I weep 

O'er thy wrongs ; 
And bring me, steeped in tears, 
The dead flowers of other years, 
And waft unto my ears 

Home's Songs. 

When I slumber in the gloom 
Of a nameless, foreign tomb, 
By a distant ocean's boom, 

Innisf ail ! 
Around thy em'rald shore 
May the clasping sea adore, 
And each wave in thunder roar, 

« All haU ! " 

And when the final sigh 
Shall bear my soul on high^ 
And on chainless wing I fly 

Through the blue. 
Earth's latest thought shall be, 
As I soar above the sea, 
" Green Erin, dear, to thee 

Adieu ! " 



68 POEMS OF 

THE PASS OP PLUMES. 

"Look out," said O'Moore to his clansmen, 

" afar — 
Is yon white cloud the herald of tempest or war 1 
Hark! know you the roll of the foreigners' 

drums ? 
By Heaven ! Lord Essex in panoply comes, 
With corslet, and helmet, and gay bannerol, 
And the shields of the nobles with blazon and 

scroll, 
And, as snow on the larch in December appears, 
What a Winter of plumes on that forest of 

spears ! 
To the clangour of trumpets and waving of 

flags. 
The clattering cavalry prance o'er the crags ; 
And their plumes — ^by St. Kyran ! false Saxon, 

ere night. 
You shall wish their fine feathers were wings 

for your flight I 
Shall we leave all the blood and the gold of the 

Pale 
To be shed at Armagh and be won by O'Neill 1 
Shall we yield to O'Ruarc, to M*Guire, and 

O'Donnell, 
Brave chieftains of Breffni, FermaiiSkgJx^ T^t- 
conneJ, 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 69 

Yon helmets the *Eric' ♦ thrice over would pay 
For the Sassenagh heads they'll protect not 

to-day 1 
No ! by redMullaghmast, fiery clansmen of Leix, 
Avenge your sires' blood on their murderers' 

race! 
Now, sept of O'MoorOi fearless sons of the 

heather, f 
Fling your scabbards away, and strike home 

and together I " 

Then loudly the clang of commingled blows 

TJpswelled from the sounding fields, 
And the joy of a hundred trumps arose, 

And the clash of a thousand shields, 
And the long plumes danced, and the fal- 
chions rang, 

And flashed the whirled spear. 
And the furious barb through the wild war 
sprang, 

And trembled the earth with fear ; 
The fatal bolts exulting fled, 

And hissed as they leaped away ; 
And the tortured steed on the red grass bled, 

Or died with a piercing neigh. 

* Fine for manslaughter in the lm\i o^^ 
f The O'Moorea wore a vmsL ol ^x^^VJaet Vsk. VJaea 
helmets. ^ ^ 



70 POEMS OF 

I see their weapons crimsoned — I hear the 

mingled cries 
Of rage and pain and triumph, as they thunder 

to the skies. 
The cooluned kern are rushing upon armour, 

knights, and mace, 
And bones and brass are broken in their terrible 

embrace ; 
The coursers roll and struggle, and their riders, 

girt in steel. 
From their saddles crushed and cloven to the 

purple heather reel, 
And shattered there, and trampled by the 

charger's iron hoof. 
The seething brain is bursting thro' the crash- 
ing helmet's roof. 
Joy I Heaven thrills for freedom, and Elizabeth's 

array, 
With her paramour to lead them, are sore beset 

to-day ; 
Their heraldry and plumery, their coronets and 

mail. 
Are trampled on the battle plain, or scattered 

on the gale. 
As the cavalry of ocean, the living billows, 

bound, 
fVj&en ligbtninga Jeap above ttiem atvd t\i\mdftt* 
clang around. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 71 

And, tempest-crested dazzlingly, caparisoned 

in spray, 
They crush the black and broken rocks with 

all their roots away, 
So charged the stormy chivalry of Erin in her 

ire — 
Their shock the roll of ocean, their swords 

electric fire — 
They rose like banded billows, that, when win- 
try tempests blow. 
The trampling shore with stunning roar and 

dreadful wreck o'erflow ; 
And where they burst tremendously upon the 

bloody ground, 
Both horse and man, from rere to van, like 

shivered barques went down. 
Leave your costly Milan hauberks, haughty 

nobles of the Pale ! 
And your snowy ostrich feathers, as a tribute 

to the Gael ; 
Fling away gilt spur and trinket, in your hurry, 

knight and squire ! 
They will make our virgins ornaments, or 

decorate the lyre. 
Ho ! Essex ! how your vestal queen will storm 

when she hears 
The " mere Irish " chased \iet mmvya. wA V\a 
twenty thousand spe&is. 



72 POEMS OF 

60 ! tell the royal virgin that O^Moore, M'Hagh, 

O'Neill, 
Will smite the faithless stranger while there's 

steel in Innisfail. 
The blood you shed shall only serve more deep 

revenge to nnrse, 
And onr hatred be as lasting as the tyranny we 

curse ; 
From age to age consuming, it shall blaze a 

quenchless fibre. 
And the son shall thirst and bum still more 

fiercely than his sire. 
By our sorrows, songs, and battles — by our 

cromleachs, raths, and towers — 
By sword and chain, by all our slain — between 

your race and ours 
Be naked glaives and yawning graves, and 

ceaseless tears and gore. 
Till battle's flood wash out in blood your foot- 
steps from the shore. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 73 

LORD OF HOSTS. 

Lord of Hosts ! in vain for pity 

Tyrants long we prayed, but now 
To Thee we cry from plain and city — 

Eise, and judge between us, Thou I 
To glut the rage of English Mammon 

We mourn a yearly million slain ; 
And reap from graves the plague and famine, 

Pouring forth our blood like rain. 

Every heart is bare before Thee — 

If with sacrilegious lips 
And lying tongue we dare adore Thee, 

Strike us down in foul eclipse I 
If we seek revenge or plunder, 

Or to crush a brother's creed, 
Blast us with Thy fiercest thunder — 

Leave us in our hour of need. 

If we seek but justice purely. 

Earth and Hell our foes may be ; 
Thou wilt bless our banner surely, 

And Thy smile is victory ! 
Ere we burst the chains that gore us, 

Ere the tide of battle rolls. 
May Thine angels camp aioxm^i \sa^ 

Nerve oar hearts and deaaa^ wrt ^w^a\ 



74 poBais OF 

Lord of Hosts ! in tears before Thee 

See the prostrate people kneel — 
. Hear the starving poor implore Thee — 

Smile on Freedom's sacred steel I 
By His blood who lived to love us, 

Toiled to teach, and died to save — 
By Thyself, just God ! above us, 

Grant us Freedom, or the gp:ave ! 

May 20th, 1848. 



KING BKIAN'S MARCH TO GLONTARF. 

Hark ! the war-trumpet sound 
Echoing wildly round ! 
Proudly our bosoms bound, 

Panting for Freedom. 
Over the mountains, lo ! 
Plumes wave like drifting snow, 
Brightly their falchions glow — 

Valiant chief, lead them. 

Battles each banner's fold, 
From whose rich field, unrolled, 
Redly a sun of gold 

Far away glances. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 75 

Won from the wave and mine, 
Gems on their helmets shine. 
Flowers with their banners twine — 
Sharp are their lances. 

Wave restless plumes in air, 
And from their axes bare, 
Shimm'ringly mirrored there. 

How the light flashes I 
Who on the battle-field 
Would to the pirate yield. 
Basely his father's shield, 

Curst be his ashes I 

Oh ! may your swords be strong, 
Wielded to right the wrong, 
And, in immortal song. 

Wedded to story. 
O'er whom for Erin dies, 
Let the wild caiona rise, 
And to our tearful skies 

Waft ye his glory. 

O'er their defender's sleep 
Beauty shall fondly weep^ 
Veiled muses vigil kee^) 

And, in Bad ii\xm\>Qt%« 



76 POEMS OP 

Bards of the rescued land, 
While round his tomb they stand, 
Where hangs his sheathed brand, 
Hymn o'er his slumbers. 

Chiefs of the fiery Gael, 
Gird on your shining mail — 
Death to the slaves of Bael — 

Death and dishonour ! 
Under your holy steel 
See the pale virgin kneel, 
Shall the insulter's heel 

Trample upon her ? 

Strike for your lands and lives I 
See, 'neath assassin knives^ 
Daughters and blooming wives, 

Fearing worse danger. 
Cloud-shielded I star-adored I 
Flash forth thy dazzling sword, 
Smite the barbarian horde, 

Wither the stranger I 

Down from the Baltic main 
Hush they to forge again 
Bonds upon Ulad's plain — 
Chains on Temoxa\ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLUMS. 77 

Up I from the vale and hall, 
Rise in your armour all^ 
Sons of the Clan-a-gall, 

Strength of Kincora I 

Bise ! rise I the Dane ! the Dane ! 
Slay them in tower and fane, 
From the far western main 

E'en to Ben Hedir. 
Soon shall their guilty ghosts 
Howl round our fatal coasts — 
Lightning-rohed Lord of Hosts, 

Blast the invader 1 



FREEDOM. 

Most glorious freedom, from the heavens, oh ! 
hear I 
The prostrate world in bitter anguish groans — 
Hurl o'er our hills thy fetter-breaking spear — 
Speak with thy loudest stormy trumpet- 
tones — 
D&sb the earth's tyrants iioxa >iJsv«vt %^^i 
thrones ! 



78 POEMS OF 

Hark to the mighty music of her wings, 

Eushing in thunder from the starry zones ; 
On broken bonds she treads, and crownless 

kings, 
And o'er the new-born world a dazzling glory 

flings. 

Oh ! thou hast been my muse. From thy bright 
eyes, 
Freedom, I drew the minstrel's lonely lore — 
For thee, my wing first dared the poet's skies. 
And since in dreams I wooed thee first of 

yore, 
Each hour my soul would clasp thee more 
and more ; 
With clearer worship now I bend the knee. 

Queen of my love ! thy cloudy shrine before ; 
Abhorring chains, and panting to be free, 
My kindling soul invokes immortal liberty. 

Arise, Columbia ! bright in all the stars ! 

Hail to young Freedom's constellated flag ! 
As the past have been, ever be thy wars, 
Just and successful ! O'er thine eagle's crag 
Ne'er shall an alien pirate's " motley rag " 
Flutter triumphant. From thy chainless shore 
The old-world harlot, red and murderous hag — 
The nightmare of the sea — ^retuina no tCLOt^\ 
Or, thander-blsLSted, flies aa B\ie\ia\i\i^^^\«iox^' 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 79 

See yonder human devil stand alone, 
Grasping with desperate hand, *mid circling 
flame, 
The crackling fragments of her blazing throne ; 
While hatred, terror, baffled rage, and shame, 
Distort her features and convulse her frame ! 
Her snake eyes glitter, and her white lips 
foam — 
Traitress! erewhile earth trembled at thy 
name, 
But now thy blood-sapped cannon-bristling 

home 
Around thee falls in ruins, crashing dome on 
dome. 

Thus may all tyrants perish ! But thy throne, 
Aventine goddess ! child of the Most High I 

Like a huge rock in stormy seas alone, 
Fixed as the basis of thy native sky, 
Shall see them, at thy feet, unpitied die. 

And then shall be, daughter of the Lord, 
From ransomed nations jubilant a cry 
* Of joy and triumph to thy saving sword. 

And thou shalt be thenceforth eternally adored. 



80 POEMS OF 

THE IRISH NATIONAL GUARD TO HIS 

SISTER. 

Mt sister dear, in holy cloister kneeling, 

Serenely gazing on the midnight orbs, 
Their eyes to thine celestial dreams revealing, 

While adoration all thy soul absorbs ; 
Forget not earth, though heaven encamp about 
thee. 

Forget not him who feebly fights and falls 
Alone, afar, and pilotless without thee. 

In vain for aid amid the tempest calls. 
Thou art as sacred fire before an altar, 

And I — a watcher in the lonely night, 
With bleeding feet the while o'er rocks I falter — 

Look up and bless the consecrated light. 
Thy tent is where the lightning-sworded Seven 

Array the dazzling armies of the suns ; 
But mine afar where gleam the fires of heaven, 

Pale, pure, and holy as a choir of nuns. 
And thou shalt drink at that ambrosial table 

Where angels banquet in immortal halls. 
While I — oh ! were my grosser sense but able 

To bear the light that from their raiment falls! 
To feel His glory like an ocean growing 

For every grander, o'er my sinking head. 
And on my brow a twilight luatie ^Vo^vxi^ 
^rom diatant suns in far-off Byatema ^^^\ — 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 81 

I fight with steel, and thou with prayer ; but 
whether 
With cross or spear, or Rosary or brand, 

sister ! may we climb the heavens together ! 
A patriot's blood might grace an angel's hand. 

1 deem that all are to one centre tending — 

All spirit rays that in one flame shall burn, 
When each with all, and all with Godhead 
blending, 

Back to their source, fire-tested, shall return. 
Each living soul, no more distinct and single. 

Through aeons purified, shall yet combine, 
Till even natures base as mine may mingle 

With those almost immaculate as thine. 
Yet tremble, sister, tremble and be zealous. 

Elected vestal of a Spouse thou art 
Who still the more He loves, the more is jealous, 

And thou reclinest on His very heart. 
But I have worshipped from my youth, His 
daughter, 

Chain-breaking Liberty, at whose command, 
For weal or woe, to felon-chains or slaughter, 

I do devote myself for this dear land. 
Farewell ! Pray Him who drew the stars from 
chaos, 

Who smiled the darkness into golden light. 
And sent from heaven theswotd ol^^^^^^x^^> 

To smile on Erin and delend tVift x\^\i. 

yiifie l(Hh, 1848. 



82 POEMS OF 



LAMENT FOR THOMAS DAVIS. 

Hast thou fallen from our band, 

Purest spirit of the land ? 
Hast thou perished while thy glory yet was 
young ] 

While more than mortal fire 

Sprang intensely from thy lyre, 
And love and wisdom flowed from thy tongue 1 

O think, with grief and pride, 

How he laboured, thought, and died. 
To knit our souls together in love's chain ; 

And shall the nations say, 

Reproachful o'er his clay, 
That his great heart throbbed, and broke at last, 
in vain ? 

Oh ! could his gentle eyes 
E'er know sorrow in the skies. 
This — this would mar his glory in the spheres ; 
His crown would grow less bright. 
And before the angels' aigbfc 
^or once would Eden's floor be deleft. m^\ftw^. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 83 

No ! humbly kneeling here, 

Around his early bier, 
His spirit smiling o'er us from above, 

With clasped souls and hands, 

Where our hero's marble stands 
We'll rear a lasting shrine to him and love. 

Arise ! spread shamrocks round — 

This earth is holy ground ; 
May seraphim watch fondly o'er his grave, 

And curses scourge away 

From this consecrated clay 
The hypocrite, the tyrant, and the slave 1 

Let him sleep in Irish ground, 

At his feet the Irish hound, 
The harp of battle broken by his side, 

And let his willing hand 

Embrace the half-drawn brand — 
Oh ! had he but unsheathed it ere he died 1 

With laurel shade his clay 
From the amber light of day, 

And be thou his ceaseless caoinet\ mournful 
wind ! 

For ne'er a nobler heart, 
"World-seeing" t\xo\xg\it\iO\3L ^x\.^ 

Id all thy bouDC^l^s«' kingdom dci«XV» ^wx^'sA* 



84 POEltfS OF 

But his deathless name shall be 
Still a rainbow to the free — 

A promise slavery's deluge to control, 
And our children, yet in strife 
For love, liberty, and life, 

Shall feel the inspiration of his soul. 

The morning's golden hair 
Shall be grey, with time, in air — 

The constellated host pass away — 
The angel-bearing spheres 
Shall grow sterile in their years, 

And the pillars of the universe decay. 

But natures all divine, 
Bard and Patriot ! like thine. 

Pure spirit of imperishable flame ! 
Exult in native light, 
Inextinguishably bright. 

Immortal as the soul whence they came ! 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 86 



SONG OF THE IRISH-AMERICAN 
REGIMENTS. 

We have changed the battle-field, 

But the cause abandoned never — 
Here a sharper sword to wield, 

And wage the endless war for ever. 
Yes ! the war we wage with thee — 

That of light with power infernal — 
As it hath been still shall be, 

Unforgiving and eternal. 

Let admiring nations praise 

Thy crystal halls and silk pavilions ; 
But I see through bloody haze 

The phantoms of the murdered millions. 
Hark ! from out their shallow graves 

Wail our brothers o'er the billow — 
" We have died the death of slaves, 

Weeds our food, the earth our pillow." 

Lo ! the ghastly spectre throng ! 
Shroudless all in awful pallor I 
Venge&Dce ! JFho should rigYi^. VScl«« ^xwi^N 
^ebAve arms, and men, an^ ^ti^oMt* 



8€ POEMS OF 

Strike ! the idol long adored 
Waits the doom just gods award her ; 

To arms ! away ! with fire and sword I 
Our march is o'er the British border ! 

The harlot, drunk with pride as wine, 

Bevels in her guilty palace ; 
Thus Belshazzar Syria's vine 

Quaffed from plundered Salem's chalice. 
That very hour avenging Fates 

Boiled back thy storied tide, Euphrates ; 
And thou ! the Gaul is at thy gates, 

And panic smites thy pale Penates. 

The brazen hypocrite who moans 

O'er others' sins, yet dares dissemble 
Her own foul guilt, whereat the stones 

Of Sodom's self might blush and tremble I 
Thy power and pride shall cease below 

The scoff of every tongue and nation, 
And men thy name shall only know 

As meaning guilt and desolation. 

New Orleans, April 2&(h, 1862. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 87 



THE MINE OF TORTONA. 

Cannon from the ramparts flashing, 

Eound besieged Tortona rang ; 
And the stormers, forward dashing, 

Up the crackling ladders sprang. 
" Hark ! Carew," the Marshal crieth, 

"Yonder hell-pit must be ours 
Ere the flag of Naples flieth 

O'er Tortona's vanquished towers. 

'' Ever first in toil and danger. 

Breach and charge and storm, is seen 
Thy gay ensign, gallant stranger, 

Erin's plume of floral green. 
I know thee brave — yon desp'rate station 

Rests upon a hostile mine ; 
Noblest of a noblest nation ! 

Honour's post or death is thine." 

At his chieftain's praises blushing, 
Proudly smiled the young Carew, 

And with eager ardour rushing, 
Up the masked volcano flew. 

Death's around, above, and under 
Batteries from the trenches ring, 

Cannon from the rampaxla t\i\rcL^^T^ 
Shot and shell around Ymn i\ii%* 



-1 



88 POEMS OF RICHARD D'aLTON WILLIAMS. 

"Comrades ! still our scanty ration 

Yields another cup of wine ; 
Let us pour a last libation, 

Merry home ! to thee and thine. 
Erin ! land of song and beauty, 

Welcome ev'ry fate shall be, 
If the most appalling duty 

Add one wreath of fame to thee. 

'' Here we drink to those who, falling 

Clasped in battle's red embrace, 
Nobly sleep 'mid trumpets calling 

* Victory ' o'er their resting place." 
So peal out the clarions loudly. 

Cease the bursting shell and gun. 
And the hero, smiling proudly, 

Sheathes his sword — ^Tortona's won ! 



HUMOROUS POEMS. 



POEMS OF RICHARD D'ALTON WILUAMS. 91 



MISADVENTUKES OF A MEDICAL 

STUDENT. 



NO. I,— BLIGHTED LOVE. 

Heigh o ! I wipe slowly the tears from my nose, 
And lay bare to your pity the tale of my woes^ 
For darker 's our fate when there's no one to 

weep it. 
I'm in love (for the twentieth time, devil sweep 

it!) 
In affairs of the sort, since I know your dis- 
cretion, 
I confide to your friendship this candid con- 
fession. 
I lodge in a lodging where lodge many lodgers. 
Obeying with pride an autochthonal Todgers, 
Here one — a contemplative maid — I found out. 
Who lives wp, and, besides, who lives over the 

spout — 
The up^s metaphoric, the der mathematic, 
¥oT this queen of my boaom Yi^u^Qt^m^^ 
attic. 



92 POEMS OF 

There, gazing each evening through cobweb 

and bars, 
She communes with her kindred — the listening 

stars ; 
And sings with such strength^ perseverance, 

and fire, 
That no one of the winds by himself ere came 

nigh her. 
In her breast evWy god of the compass I know 

is, 
EuTusque^ Notusque, Icetusque E(ns ; 
Her eyes flashing fire, and her voice like the 

thunder. 
Have split both my ears and my bosom asunder. 
Oh, yes ! 'twas the power of her " ore rotundo " 
Was destined the peace of my bosom to 

undo ; 
And, 'twixt headache and heartache, I'm blest 

if I know 
What balsam can banish my multiplied woe. 
For your sake I wish you hung out somewhat 

nearer, 
Though, indeed, where you are, if not bothered, 

you'll hear her. 
Hark ! there's " Yankee Doodle " and " Le fin* 

air ore,'" 
''Moll Roe/' and "The Lancwa,'' wi^ ^M 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 93 

Let me paint her, Lord ! though I tremble 

to do it ; 
May the Muses kick, thump, pull, and jostle 

me through it : 
Her height is six feet, and her age is — no 

matter ; 
Her papa vendeth tripe in renowned Stony- 
batter ; 
Her name no one knows, but her worshipper's 

will is 
Henceforth that she bears the cognomen of 

Phillis ; 
She stitcheth at times, and she trimmeth ; but 

surely 
This may be, this must be, through playfulness 

purely ; 
Or to help her abstraction she pointeth the 

needle 
While lighter nymphs wheel to the gay tweedle- 

deedle. 
The first time 'twas mine the dear nymph to 

behold 
She said, with a sneeze, that '^ she'd got a bad 

cold. 
Which pestered^her so she got scarce any rest," 
So I leeched, for experiment, Pbillis's breast. 
On her skin when I see them, I m\^\^ \^^%^^i^ 
The gods to transmogrify me to ^\eeOEi« 



94 POEMS OF • 

While I view the black rascals with envying 

sight, 
Till they fall from her bosom quite drunk with 

delight. 
Since that hour, from the scalp to the tendo 

AchUlis, 
Bone, muscle, and nerve, I am thine, dearest 

Phillis. 
And as fee, 'bwas the first I received in my life. 
When you gave me " Tom Jones " and a tortoise- 
shell knife ; 
Oh ! ne'er did I feel such a wild titillation 
Since the days of my cartilaginificatUm. 
And the touch of your hand, sweetest maid, 

without flattery, 
Made me jump, by Jim Crow ! like a galvanic 

battery. 
Come bind to this thorax thy mammary glands^ 
In the toughest of ligaments^ hymeneal bands. 
And Cupid shall flutter for ever before us. 
With an arch upward curl of the angulus oris. 
May my scapulce slip, and my darkles crack, 
And the vertebra twist here and there through 

my back. 
Ere I cease to adore the enchantress who 

stole^ 
Siveet pickpocket ! all the looa^ c\i%.w^<& ol my 
soul ! 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS., 95 

Oh! rU haDg white and cold as a petrified 

miller, 
Some night from the humbug that crowns 

Nelson's pillar, 
Or ril mount the brass hat of the long Ennis- 

killeners, 
If you rake out my flame, peerless Phoenix of 

milliners. 

Alas ! for dear woman, now ain't it a pity 
How little they care for a scientific ditty 1 
Last night from her bedroom a voice growled 

'^Gobed— dl" 
And the door's in your friend's physiognomy 

slammed ; 
And my heart dropped down where my 

stomach and all is 
To the pancreatciodmdencdis. 
Ah me ! — would you dream it ] — a bouncing 

dragoon 
Now flirts with a sylph lately chaste as the 

moon; 
A swaggering, long-legged, impertinent fellow, 
Who wears a red jacket bedizened with yellow, 
In the highly drilled corps of Lord Colonel 

Decanter, 
Looked forth from his whisketa, ^iXiA. ^QTio^*^-^^^ 

instanter. 



96 POEMS OF 

Now the shrine of the goddess is filled with 
hussars, 

And the martial aroma of gin and cigars : 

For this have I penned, her cold bosom to 
warm, 

Songs doleful and dismal, and long as my arm ? 

She prefers this Munchausen's bravados of wars. 

And cuts an Apollo to romp with a Mars — 

Nay, forgetting, says fame, her correct per- 
pendicular. 

Is, alas ! too like Venus in every particular. 

By despair and the bump of destructiveness led, 

Of late I have strangled, or poisoned, or bled, 

Many cats and some dogs, in attempts to dis- 
cover 

Whether rope, steel, or poison is best for a lover. 

And have found that all three, when combined 
as a cure, 

Would be equally novel, and rapid, and sure. 

One last word — for the sake of my barbarous 
fair, 

Let the world never know that I die through 
despair ; 

And lest any should say that I perished by 
force, 

Pack your jury wUh care, and the verdict* s of course. 



RICHARD b' ALTON WILLIAMS. 97 



NO. IL — TUE CUT ONE. 

Come, somebody, and put me mstaataneously to 

bed. 
For Rosalind has cut me — this moment cat me 

dead. 
Iq Merrion-sqaare she passed me, my skirt her 

flounces brushed I 
She walked right on, and blast me if the girl 

as much as blushed 1 
Yet I wore a stays entwining my most fashion- 
able waist, 
And in my dicky shining a huge pin of diamond 

paste : 
My toes in patent leather were intolerably 

crushed, 
And hke a raven's feather my tremendous 

whiskers brushed. 
Eosa ! stony-hearted, 'twas for thee my spirit 

cried, 
Till my comraciss often started while dissecting 

by my side ; 
For thee I've borne their sneering with a spirit 

mild and meek, 
Though oft within my hearing t\i»& di^eitKivi^ 

tbejr speak — 



98 POEBIS. OF 

''By Jove, our comrade Doodle now is done 

completely brown, 
Follows Rosa like her poodle, and hawks muslin 

through the town." 
To the acme of endurance for thee I've tasked 

my mind 
To raise by much asswrance the metaphoric 

" wind." 
For thee, to prove my passion, I am squeezed 

almost to death, 
Till, in agonies of fashion, I can scarcely draw 

my breath. 
And oft, Rosalinda, have I warbled all night 

long, 
Underneath thy chamber window, "Marble 

Halls " and " Lucy Long." 
And thou knowest, fair and cruel — to my 

sorrow be it told — 
How long I lived on gruel, from these solos 

catching cold. 
When I took you to the Dargle, and jumped 

in to catch your glove. 
What a cataract of gargle was the sequel of my 

love! 
And though Venus hath not lost me, and I yet 

survive to waltz, 
Cupid knows what he has cost me in calomel 
and salta I 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 99 

Adieu! send back my letters — for a distant 

shore I'm bound : 
Nota'Bene — let my debtors with my creditors 

compound. 
But I'll interfere with neither — I should feel 

extremely loath 
To rub my skirts with either, for they're vulgar 

rascals both. 
Unshaved and misanthropical, I'll bury all my 

woes 
In some region fiercely tropical, where duns ne'er 

show their nose ; 
With rifles double-barrelled and a plenitude 

of bile, 
Half Crusoe, half Ghilde Harold, I will seek 

some savage isle : 
There, girt with nature's riches, from jQts and 

bailiffs free, 
I shall reign, without a breeches, o'er the cockle- 
bearing sea; 
I will sympathize with mussels, and commune 

with honest whales — 
They wear no lying bustles on their "round 

unvarnished tails ;" 
In the labyrinthine cloisters of the rocks be- 
neath the main 
My soul shall pour on oysters love it ^qmx^ ^w. 

tbee in vain ; 



100 POKMS OF 

Then shall pebbles, shells, and mosses, raw 

lobsters and despair, 
See the whiskers and proboscis that delighted 

Merrion-square ! 
To the polka, to flirtation, to smiles from beau 

and belle, 
To reviews and equitation in the Park, a long 

farewell. 
Adieu my dreams of marriage unto ugliness 

and rank, 
To a cellar, and a carriage, and a balance at the 

bank; 
Adieu ! the " Shades," the promenades, the sly 

cigar divan. 
The lounges sweet through Sackville-street, to 

play the nice young man. 
Alas I and must so great a dust retire from 

public life, 
And take for worse, without a purse, a mermaid 

for a wife ! 
Farewell the ball, the ladies all, the turf, and 

the harU ton. 
Of etiquette the sun has set, my occupation's 

gone. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILUAMS. 101 



NO. III. — MY SKULL; 
AND THB SCRAPE IT BROUGHT MB INTO. 

*' Skull, the son of a skeleton, of the tribe of bloodless.*' 

•r-Lucian. 

My dear patients, you know there are " sermons 

in stones," 
And a sage may find more than the marrow in 

bones ; 
(It was, doubtless, this notion induced a great 

chief 
To present to our city the famed " shin of 

beef")— 
My skull (not one thing with my head, be it 

said — 
The former is living, the latter is dead, 
And my skull, I much fear, has more sense 

than my head) 
Game into my hands in fair mercantile manner. 
And cost me precisely four bob and a tanner. 
And what, after all, can prevent one from 

sinning 
Like a good-humoured skull everlastingly 

grinning 1 
He hangs near my window, and when vi^\^ 

alone 
He tells me much truth in a woj ol\!^a vwx^^-. 



102 POEMS OF 

For instance, an officer lately passed by, 

A fair girl on his arm with a tear in her eye — 

" Poor thing I she believes all his well-prepared 

lies; 
Bat / see his hearty said my friend without 

eyes. 
Each evening we've much to each other to say, 
And I smile, and he grins, o'er the scenes of 

the day* 
Very well! let him hang on his nail for the 

present, 
While I glance through the past, though the 

task isn't pleasant ; 
You must know, Attic reader, Tve reckoned it 

prudent 
In lodgings to run my career as a student, 
And prefer the most tow'ring cock-lofty abodes, 
As more near to my income, fresh air, and the 

gods; 
And I've hunted the city, my fortunes to push. 
From Kilmainham north-west to south-east 

Beggar's-bush. 
'Tis all one — or with Kooney, Ramsbottom, or 

Rogers, 
I am destined to be the most rueful of lodgers. 
The springs of pianos, wherever I go. 
Like the wrath of Achilles, are "ai^TWi^^Ql ^^;^\i 
woe ; ** 



RICHARD D'ALTON WfLLTAMS. 103 

Young girls stun their beaux, and old maids 

stun their parrots, 
And the polka is thumped from the ground to 

the garrets ; 
Or Tm sure to encounter some amateur dunce, 
Who jars on the feeling and fiddle at once — 
Then the landladies aim at my heart or my 

pocket, 
And give notice to quit, or — a portrait and 

locket. 
But of all the dark deeds that my Todgerses did 

do 
The darkest was wrought by an officer's widow. 
An officer's widow ! well, well, let it be so, 
Though I shouldn't spare one who has victim- 
ised me so ; 
She lived on my mutton, she burned my coal, 
And at last popped my name-them-nots — ^yes, 

'pon my soul ! 
But the daughter was fair, and though ma was 

a Tartar, 
I suffered it all like a regular martyr; 
And this, though a rattletrap harpsichord's tones 
Disturbed every evening myself and my bones — 
Now thundered the polka — now painfully 

squealing, 
She tried " Still so gently " t,o CiOtCkft ^'^«t\fi«k 

stealing ; " 



104 POEMS OF 

Then her goggle-eyed brother was constantly 

grunting 
Airs, as he pleasantly told me, from ''Bun- 
ting •* — 
Take a cat in the gutter, a bull in the pound, 
And a pig in misfortune, he'd beat them all 

round ; 
To his barbarous grumble surpassingly sweet 

is 
The croak of a frog in acute laryngitis. 
This sketch of the characters briefly despatched. 
We return to my skull, and the thorax attached ; 
One evening, when musing, I sat near the fire, 
I thus cross-examined my friend upon wire — 
^^I observe you look hard at my landlady's 

daughter, 
Whenever a chance to your presence has brought 

her; 
Can it be, my dry codger, you're going to woo, 
Like other old fools that are musty as you ? 
Have you any design, my old phosphate, upon 

her 1 " 

m 

<* Oh, no I " said the skeleton, " no, *pon my 

honour." 
And he placed his long hand, with a dignified 

mien. 
On the ribs 'neath which one time a li^att muat 
have been. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 105 

^*It'8 all for your sake — ^when her bombazine 
rasties, 

You abandon my bones to contemplate her 
muscles ; 

I am piqued, I confess, thus so often neglec- 
ted— 

Not so much was I pained when my ribs were 
dissected ; 

You must quit her at once without any apology, 

How the deuce, if you don't, will you know 
osteology 1 " 

" Quit her!" roared I, all at once losing patience, 

" You dusty old bundle of articulations — 

Surrender Miss Eooney for you, sirl — 
crickey — 

The maid who is close to my heart as my 
dickey. 

Black as leeches her hair on her stearine neck 
shines, 

And her eye, like a trocar^ has tapped my 
affections." 

"I see," replied Bones, "youVe deplorably 
spooney 

About this most musical beauty, MissBooney — 

You walk with her, gaze on her, love her un- 
boundedly, 

All which, I confess it, amuE^d la^ c^wAwvxA- 
edJjr; 



106 POEMS OF 

For — ha ! ha ! — though / once loved as well as 

another, 
I can heartily laugh at a suffering brother. 
If you marry Miss Rooney — who hasn't an 

inkling 
Of that sweet tin-tirirBhuliim, metallic tinkling — 
You must live, like a watch, upon tick your 

life through ! 
A more dolorous tick than the tiodohreux ; 
For a poet's proverbially slender abilities j^ 

Would never suffice for your ' responsibilities.' " 
(This was true — for I swear, though I can't wed 

awhile, 
When I do, by King Brian ! I'll do it in style ; 
For I mean, ere the next Irish war, to produce 
A whole regiment of "minstrel boys" ready 

for use ; 
Each file shall be born with a pike in his fist, 
And a gun on his shoulder, all ready to list. 
May they honour the true hearts that bore them 

before. 
And do like their grandsires, W do something 

more.) 
** Flirtation," said I, " is remarkably pleasant, 
But I'm not prepared to get married at present." 
^'So, indeed," said my friend, with a nod, "I 
should think," 
And that nod was a nod thaVa a» ^oo^ «b^ ^ 'vyc^l* 



^ . 



RICHARD D*ALTON WILLIAMS. 107 

" Now go to her door, and by close auscultation 
You'll wake, I should hope, from your mystifi- 
cation." 
I obeyed him — but spare me — dwell not on my 

woes — 
Let me rapidly draw my sad tale to a close. 
The musical relative seemed, to my notion. 
To display rather more than fraternal emotion ; 
And, in fact, with such zeal did they kiss one 

another. 
That her brother, I diagnosed, wasn't her brother. 
*' Sacre bleu 1 Diable ! Diantre ! Centmille 

tonnerres ! " 
I swore, and at once summersaulted down 

stairs ; 
"But my vengeance all Ireland and Dublin 

shall see, 
ril put muriate of mercury fe»-night in his tea — 
I'll sharpen my scalpels, and, tearing away his 
SfernocleidomastoidaeuSj* 
Cut down, to revenge my foul wrong, till I 

blot it 
Away in the blood of his common carotid" f 
But discretion is always the best part of valour, 
As I felt by a strong palpitation and pallor. 



* A muscle oi tlie necV. 
t Main artery oi ttie Ti^cV. 



108 POKMS OF 

" *Twill be generous," I said, " to give Croaker 

his life, 
And the pen takes a deeper revenge than the 

knife ; 
As for her, I wou'o bid her, by laudanum, 

adieu ; 
As to hanging for love — III be hanged if I do I " 
So I quitted my lodgings next day for another, 
With this pious wish for ma, miss, and the 

brother — 
** May they suffer lumbago and pericarditis. 
The gout, diabetes, and chronic bronchitis ! 
May lupus eternally feast on their noses, 
And their bones waste and die in the fangs of 

necrosis ! " 



NO. IV. — QUODDED. 

There's a tavern off Westmoreland-street, near 

Eobinson and Bussell's, 
Where 1 often took the wrinkles from my epi- 
gastric muscles, 
And sometimes brought a friend or two right 
valiantly to join 
la a foray on the " natives,** ot a \oftVX\xi^m>i2cL 
Sir Loin ; 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 109 

And oft I condescended with my solemn host 

to chatter 
Of steam-engines and rattlesnakes, or any other 

matter. 
I glanced at apple-dumplings, monster meetings, 

civil wars, 
Ham sandwiches, geology, the Oregon, the stars, 
Hydropathy, the Puseyites, the newspapers, and 

soup, 
And gave himself advice for gout, his child the 

same for croup. 
I blarneyed him, I plastered him, I stuck it on 

in lamps, 
I said he was a " roarer " and the emperor of 

trumps : 
And I called him, while he boarded me re- 
spectably on tick, 
The quintessence concentrated of a sublimated 

brick. 
At length (misguided man!) unpleasant mes- 
sages were sent 
Most annoying to the feelings — that is, pocket 

— of a gent. 
Containing innuendoes about — damn it 1 — about 

the rent. 
To think that I, who spend my cash on science 

and experiment^ 
Would pay for vulgar food^B eiioxx^ Vi» 'w^^ ^ 
Stoic's merriment. 



110 POEMS OF 

I quoted much in learned tongues from many 
an ancient oracle, 

And poured upon mine host a flood of logic 
oratorical, 

To prove that his the debt had been, and / had 
been the loser, 

Whereto he only answered me, "By jingo! 
but that's new, sir," 

(Vile wretch ! before posterity 1*11 be his soul's 
accuser.) 

Id wrath I, somewhat rashly, drew a scalpel 
from my pocket, 

To amputate his humerus directly at the socket ; 

But slips belong unhappily to surgery and danc- 
ing, 

I stumbled on an orange peel while hastily 
advancing, 

And only slightly wounded, through his "ready- 
made" habiliments. 

Some intercostohumeralcutaneousnenxms filaments ; 

And then he called a gentleman, in deep ceru- 
lean blue, 

With cabalistic symbols on his broidered collar 
too. 

What ! a minstrel of " The Nation " — there- 
fore one of " nature's nobs " — 

To be sent with knights and aldermen and other 
prosy snobs, 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. Ill 

For malt arrears, to Jericho — although, did 

Guinness know it, 
He'd briDg me here his finest beer, and never 

charge a poet. 

I stood in the Insolvent Court — not one of all 

my friends, 
To save my soul from Newgate, as security 

attends ; 
Though when I revelled gloriously on hock and 

venison pie, 
The deuce a one in Dublin had so many friends 

as I. 
Yet I thought that the indignant court would 

strike away the fetter 
That my creditor, in malice, wove to chain bis 

guileless debtor, 
And would adjudge that I, to meet a schedule 

pretty full. 
Had rather more than plenty in a thorax and 

a skull. 
Besides — I thank jpost-Tnortems—I also claim as 

mine, 
A heart, and lungs, and liver, in a jar of spirits 

of wine ; 
And curious little monsters from the Niger and 

the Ganges, 
An aJderman's intestines, audi 9b ^^O^."^^^^^^ 
jphalanges — 



112 POEMS OF 

As these were all my assets, save a scapula and 

carpusy 
I saDg the following melody to soothe opposing 

harpies : — 

" I give thee all, I can no more, 
Though poor the offering be ; 
My heart and lungs are all my store, 
And these I give to thee, 

" A heart where dilatation and 
Hypertrophy are seen, 
And lungs with countless tubercles 
Upon them and between." 

They listened to my eloquence; but yet, 'tis 

very odd. 
They sent me ignominiously, the savages, to 

quod. 
Farewell to " Pouparfs ligament" the brain, and 

cceliac axis. 
The lancet and the tourniquet, the cannula and 

taxis ; 
Adieu "St. Vincent's,'' " Dun's," "the Meath,"* 

obstetrical diameters ; 
I'm left alone, in quod to groan, or howl my 

own hexameters, 



* Three weU-known1>u\)Axa\iawB>V\a2^ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 113 

And muse apon a law like this, so dolorously 
funny, 

That takes away my liberty because I haven't 
money. 

I could work before they quodded me, but devil 
a thing at all 

Can a body do in prison but apostrophise the 
wall; 

But I'm not without some distant hope of bet- 
tering my fate, 

And my hope, like many^others', is built upon 
the grate ; 

No fire it has to solace me, but, better far, I 
knew 

That one of the detective force was always up 
the flue ; 

So, as I ever like to have a little quiet fun, 

I sat me down beside the hob, and (having 
first begun 

To damn the Court Insolvent for refusing my 
petition) 

I projected up the chimney a Vesuvius of se- 
dition -y 

Especially on railway wars I came it very 
strong, 

And then I sang extempore a treasonable song, 

Particularly lauding, in the choc\i& o^ tcl^ V%.^%> 

A pyrotechnic plan to set tii^ lAtte^ m ^\JvaaA' 



114 FOBBIS OF 

And my melody, no doubt of it, was sweet as 

Hybla's dew 
To the tympanum detective of the " crasher '' 

in the flue. 
And now I'm hoping constantly — I trust not 

without reason — 
To be put upon my trial for sedition or high 

treason, 
And thus at once win martyrdom and Rich- 
mond country air, 
By means of *^a delusion, a mockery, and a 

snare." 
But it very much depends upon the Alphabetic * 

liver 
Whether he'll believe, or not, the quiz about 

the river. 
Perhaps, if his digestion's good, he'll be a little 

sceptical, 
But men will snap at anything when surly 

and dyspeptical. 
So here I stay imploring the consonants and 

vowels 
To constipate imperviously the Alphabetic 

bowels ; 



* T. B. C. Suiith, the Attorney- General who con- 
ducted the State Prosecutions against the Repealers, 
wjM popularly known by the cognomen of " Alphabet 
Smith, in aii iiJ<ion to the number ol yq\\i\b3l \«XX«t% 
which he prefixed to his name. % 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 115 

And should the fate decree him ^Mura ih'a 

messorum," 
I confidently hope to stand ere long arraigned 

before him, 
Accused of "foul conspiracy," God knows, 

perhaps to shatter 
The Pigeon House with lolljrpops, or capture 

Stoneybatter. 
Then may the baffled Crown get up and dance 

an Irish jig, 
Or bring revolvers into court and singe my 

counsePs wig, 
Unless, indeed, ad interim, the fortune-telling 

benchers 
Adjudicate to stop at once my breath and mis'" 

adventures. 



NO. V. — THE TAXMAN. 

A moon ago, one morning, as I tried to kill 

the blues 
By the fragrance of manillas and elopements in 

the news. 
All suddenly the echo of a spurious double 

knock 
So startled me that both o£ iheia 3cc«^^^^ Vt^'a^ 

me at the shock; 



116 POEMS OF 

But my vinaigrette was near me — ^it was near 

me, tbank my stars, 
For my nerves are very weak from dissipation 

and cigars. 
I sank upon the cushions of a lounger, rich and 

thick 
(Like all my other furniture, I had it upon 

tick), 
Till the valet brought me, grinningly, an ob- 
long billet-doux, 
With Queen Victoria's compliments requesting 

one-pound-two. 
By Parnassus, 'tis the taxman — he hath called 

three times before — 
'*The phantom of the threshold" — the lion's 

at the door ; 
" Say, Tom, Fm sick, or not at home, and won't 

be back at all.*' 
*' So I tould him, plaze your honour, but he 

wouldn't lave the hall." 
Well, then, thought I, soft solder must be 

given as before ; 
So I took a gentle stimulant, and hastened to 

the door. 
In my richest robe-de-chambre, and my Turkish 

slippers too, 
And my very blandest simper, I began with, 
''Abl bowdor' 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 117 

But the taxman spake unto me, ^' Three times 

I've called in vain ; 
By the Hokey, you shall rue it if you make me 

call again." 
{Mem. — Probably this Hokey*s he whom savage 

Muses sing — 
Of all the islands cannibal. the not unworthy 

king.) 
And then the door he most melodramatically 

slammed — 
A fine emphatic pantomime, expressing ** You 

be /' 

A week of doubt most terrible, of expectation dire, 
And again the phantom cometh — ^he cometh in 

his ire. 
And the taxman spake unto me — ^he spake with 

jeer and scoff, 
"Fork out the blunt instanter, or I'll cant 

your chattels off." 
And thereto, besides, moreover, superadded he 

an oath, 
But the Muse, unused to swearingi to repeat it 

here is loath ; 
The Muse, a pious virgin^ never swears but 

when she's vexed — 
So, alas ! for future critica on \»Vi\!& \i<^T^ \&s^<^ 

ciassictezt: .. 



118 POEMS OF 

Screw microscopic goggles on each philologic 

snout, 
If the Muse don't tell vou what he swore you'll 

scarcely make it out. 
But courage ! future philomaths, and friends 

of lyric lore — 
By Jingo — living Jingo — was the solemn oath 

he swore ; 
But who this awful Jingo is none know — ^'tis 

very odd ; 
He possibly of taxmen is the tin-devouring 

god. 
In vain to soothe the worshipper of Jingo I 

began — 
"Dear sir, Fll tell mine uncle, who's a very 

public man, 
And whose ready generosity will gladly knuckle 

down 
Whatever tin I ask him for, from a yellow to a 

brown ; 
And if you call to-morrow, I, mayhap, shall 

tell you then 
What Sundaynn the coming week you'd better 

call again." 
Now the taxman spake not to me, but with 

eccentric bound, 
Like a bit of India-rubber, uprose he from the 
ground ; 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 119 

And falling roand the corner, from the horizon 
and from me 

Went off hopping like a chess-knight or intoxi- 
cated flea. 

Bat many an imprecation flitted back on zephyr's 
wing — 

By Jingo and by Hokey — by Hokey and by 
Jing; 

And though I know he loves me so, he'll surely 
come again, 

With certain raw crustacese, most likely, in his 
train — 

The phantom and his lobster host with calm- 
ness I shall view, 

For my uncle above-mentioned has supplied 
the one-pound-two. 



NO. Vr.— THE DREAJVL 

Thirteen black coffins stood round the hall, 
And the skulls grinned down at^e, jeeringly 

all; 
And an old maiden's skeleton, gaunt and tall. 
In the tattered remains of a mouldering pall, 
Clanked her lank shank fcom «(iTL^\V\\i\Xi^ ^"^i^^ — 
My eye ! what a sweW lot «b iwvc^ \i^\ 



120 POEMS OF 

There were coils of intestine in tormina knotted ; 
Hypertrophied hearts with the arch and carotid; 
There were frogs in a basin and toads in a 

bottle — 
A hard liver's liver — an alderman's throttle — 
There were noses, from schirrus, immense and 

elastic, 
Which pathology designates heteroplastic — 
If you ask me what that is, more plainly to 

speak, 
I obligingly tell you, at once, it is Greek. 

Thirteen black coffins stood round the hall, 
And the skulls grinned down at me, horribly 

all; 
And an old maid's skeleton, gaunt and tall, 
In the tattered remains of a mouldering pall, 
Clanked her lank shank from a nail in the wall. 
By Jing ! what a swell for a fancy ball ! 

There were arteries meeting in anastomosis ; 
Item, caries, callus, superb exostosis ; 
Hydrocephalic skulls of enormous proportions, 
Snakes, fishes, and owls, and all nightmare 

abortions^ 
From calves with three heads to tom-cats with 
three tails ; 
-fi^^ poultry, and beetles, bats, badgew^ Wid 
snails; 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 121 

V 

Bat the old maid's skeleton, gaunt and tall, 
Was the frightfuUest fright in thfit frightful 
hall. 

Thirteen black coffins stood round the wall. 
And the skulls grinned down at me, chattering 

all; 
While the old maid's skeleton, gaunt and tall, 
lu the tattered remains of a mouldering pall, 
Clanked her lank shank, green and yellow with 

gall. 
Old Nick ! what a swell for a fancy ball ! 

Now a strange wild music moaned through that 

hall, 
And a lurid and ghastly glare fell upon all 1 
The skeletons rattle their yellowish bones, 
Pattering, clattering over the stones ; 
And a murderer's skull, with a grin that made 

shiver. 
Was cracking gall calculi found near a liver. 
The three-tailed tabby begins to purr, 
And the phantom badger to smoothe his fur. 

Thirteen black coffins stand round the hall, 
And the skulls grin down at me, mockingly all, 
While the old maid's skeleton, gaunt and tall, 
In the tattered remains of a mouldering pall, 
Clanks her lank shank from %i il<^\V\xl\X^^^^« 
Fenirebleu / what a swefl «A. %i iwi'C^\wSi.\ 



122 POEMS OF 

Monstrosities bellow and Cerberus howls, 
There's a flapping of bats and a hooting of owls ; 
The stuffed monkeys gibber, the great whales 

grin, 
And the ravenous shark moves his dorsal fin ; 
The frogs are a-croaking, the toads crawl out, 
And the hissing snakes wriggle around and 

about 

Thirteen black coffins stand round the hall, 
And the hollow skulls scowl on me, fearfully 

all; 
But the old maid's skeleton, gaunt and tall, 
In the tattered remains of a mouldering pall, 
Thin as a ramrod, and yellow with gall. 
Clanks her lank shank from a nail in the wall. 
Do tell! what a swell! mummy belle! at a 

ball! 

What with coffins and monsters, and death and 

disease, 
The devil may smoke a pipe here, if he please. 
Though the odour would make the old gentle- 
man sneeze, 
And the night, too, is awful — at sea in a tub 
Ride witches and warlocks and Beelzebub. 
There is fear upon earth, there is terror on 
high, 
And the dull glare of tempest i8\mii^m\Xi^ ^^» 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 12S 

Thirteen black coffins move round the hall, 
And the pale tenants glare on me, fiendishly 

all; 
And the old maid's skeleton, gaunt and tall, 
In the tattered remains of a mouldering pall^ 
Which she wears with an air, as coquettes do 

a shawl, 
Clanks her lank shank from a nail in the wall, 
Kicks up her heels, and sends forth such a squall 
As never was heard at bar, bull-bait, or ball. ' 



And still waxes louder the incubus-ball. 
The old maid's skeleton, gaunt and tall, 
Stalks to an ape from her nail in the wall. 
And away they spin in a waltz fantastic ; 
Thirteen black coffins stump round the hall. 
And the foul corses glare at me, hatefully all ; 
But the old maid's skeleton, rigid and tall, 
In the scattered remains of a mouldering pall. 
Clanks her lank shank at the incubus ball, 
Till her articulations snap, scatter, and fall. 
In haste, as if urged by galenicals drastic ; 
Then an Arctic bear, all shaggy and grim. 
Makes love to a porpoise that ogles him. 
Till away they scramble and climb and swim. 
Boas and crocodiles join the i^veU — 
Liars and hypocrites, bigota and dev"'^^. 



124 POEMS OF 

I'd have given more tin than I e'er had the 

knack to lose 
To have shoved from my thorax a grim ptero- 

dactylus — 
An amphibious monstrosity, half a mile long, 
Which geology lately has given to song — 
A personified nightmare, ten thousand years 

lodger 
On earth before Adam, that luckless old codger. 
*'Go it, boots!" and, forgetting my usual 

urbanity, 
I struck out right and left, perhaps uttered 

profanity, 
And danced like a Dervise attacked with insanity. 
Till I staggered and fell on a part very tender, 
I awoke, and — it seemed I'd "been out on a 

bender I " 



NO. VII. — ^A DREAM OF THE ROTUNDO. 

" Ore Rotundo."— J^or. 

[Some of our country readers may not be aware that 
adjoining the Rotundo is the Lying-in Hospital where 
medical students are sent to study certain branches of 
their profession ; but a knowledge of this fact is very 
essential to understanding ** Shamrock's " dream.-— 
NatUm, Oct 24th, 1846.] 

Every sound had subsided to silence away, 
And the long feiack-hair'd night in bia age bad 
grown grey — 



RICHARD d'ALTON WILUAMS. 125 

The lamps burned sickly, the fires were dull red, 
And the stars and policemen were marching to 

bed— 
The midwives had ceased to blow up one 

another, 
And the babe was at rest near the slumbering 

mother. 
Fatigued all the night by my efforts required 
To forward Young Ireland, I felt very tired. 
And I thought, since I've got nothing better 

to do 
(Here I yawned like a gentleman), I'll be in 

too. 
So I seized on the first vacant pallet I saw, 
And lay, without metaphor, all in the straw. 
Now, it makes no one's spirits remarkably 

bright 
To pace through the wards all the long win- 
ter's night ; 
It is very depressing, dear Tresham,* believe. 
To hear and see suffering you must not relieve ; 
So I felt very sad, and I said in my mind, 
Were I back with the hills, and the streams, 

and the wind — 



* When this poem was written the Rev. Tresham 
Gregg was at the height of his celebrity aa a No- 
Popery lecturer, and the "Ro^ioado Cjc«c^«ii& ^^^ \^ 
favourite place for orating. 



126 POEMS OF 

Were I down in Tipperary a-chasing the dear^ 
I'd be shot ere I'd come to play Doctor Slop 

here. 
But to sleep in good humour 'tis always my 

way, 
By recalling some comical scene of the day. 
I had heard that, next day, you and Snobs, 

Snooks and Muff, 
In the hospital gardens would cut a great puff — 
Would badger the Pope, and of nunneries gloze, 
Just under the master's obstetrical nose ; 
But your principal aim was to put down 

Eepeal 
By the sanctified bleatings of reverend veal. 
All that day I heard nothing so comic by half — 
I was tickled, though grieved, you could be 

such a calf, 
And I went off to sleep with a sigh and a laugh ; 
But you still ruled my vision, with whimsical 

sway. 
Setting all things, confound you ! sublimely 

astray, 
Till Eepeal, and the Crotchet, the Pope, em- 
bryology, 
Tom Steele's latest speech, and dear PuncKs 

snobology. 
Danced quadriUea with Licete's gonopsychan- 
tbropology. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 127 

Well, I dreamed that great cheers from the 

square beneath broke, 
And one of my patients in terror awoke. 
'*0 Jove," said she, trembling all over, " deliver 

me;" 
"If he doesri^t. I will," said I, "presently, 

shiver me ! " 
" Is it flow'r-show, or music, or else a balloon 
About to ascend to the man in the moon?" 
As I waited on Juno in Ward Number Two, 
I asked, but, lo ! Tresham, they said it was 

you, 
So I walked to the window, and saw a great 

crowd, 
And heard a queer voice, less melodious than 

loud. 
And an audience, with hands independent of 

soap. 
Contracted their/^a;ors and groaned for the Pope; 
And I knew by the wondering brows of the 

throng 
That your reverence was pitching it deucedly 

strong ; 
And the men took their hats off, and wildly 

laid bare 
All their bumps phrenologic to me and the air ; 
But what grieved me, some ladies, God help 

them ! were there. 



128 POEMS OF 

Anon, by your orbicularis, 'twas plain 

You were trying, no doubt, a satirical strain; 

And in poisonous bitterness nought coald 

surpass it 
Save hydrocyanic or strong nitric acid; 
And a risus sardonicus showed very well 
You were pitching Repeal and Eopealers to — ; 
And of Papists you spoke with so rabid a hate. 
We might whistle for heaven if you kept the 

gate. 
Like a German ghost story, 'twas horribly odd 
To hear hatred preached by a servant of God — 
That is, if a madman, unconsious of shame. 
Because he wears black, may pretend to the 

name; 
For I'll fearlessly stake my professional skill 
That whenever you die, as you certainly will, 
The post-mortem inquest will show very plain 
A large solid tumour compressing your brain. 
Or serious effusion, or truly may be 'tis, 
Poor man, that you suffer acute arachnitis. 
But, whatever the devil's the matter, I know, 
That your heart and your brain are but very 

so-so. 

Can you think that a calm and well organised 

nation, 
Will be stopped by a lunatic's ftottiy oi«t\A.oTi\ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 129 

The millions who inarch like a strong spring- 
tide sea, 

When the tempest is white on the rocks of 
Kilkee? 

'Tis deliciously comic, believe me, to view 

The billows opposed by a pitchfork like you. 

The gsores are pleasingly brought into play, 

And the diaphragm rapidly rattles away. 

Bid the fair tell their age — bid a medical 
student 

Give up punch and cheroots — bid a poet be 
prudent — 

Bid lightning and love obey measure and 
rule, 

Or try anything else that is worthy a fool ; 

But don't, " an' thou lovest me," kill me with 
laughter, 

By politico-quixotic fustian hereafter — 

By a stolid attempt to revisit the nation 

With triangles, pitch-caps, drum-head legisla- 
tion, 

The pike and the bayonet, the screw and the 
rack, 

And the bloodhounds of law on conspiracy's 
track — 

By hallooing, to spring at the throats of each 
other, 

Your Catholic neighbour andPtotea\»wv\»\$tQNhj^«t^ 



130 POBBiS OF 

That peace-making England may settle the 

quarrel, 
By ruining both of us, lock, stock, and barrel. 
Tis thus, you remember, the fox in the fable, 
When the tiger and lion each other disable, 
And both of them helplessly lie near the 

prey, 
With a sneer bears the prize from between 

them away. 
You mistake Ireland's heart to pour bigotry 

in it. 
For, like Dance's sieve, 'twill not hold you a 

minute. 
Very few, though you damntd us each day in 

the week, 
Now believe that salvation's confined to a 

clique. 
So it seemed that you altered not God nor 

your neighbour, 
In fact, nothing, I thought, save my poor 

patient^s labour, 
By the noise so alBFrighted. Twas vainly. 

Alas! 
I said, 'twas the magnified bray of an ass ; 
And thus did your nonsense, you restless old 

sinner, 
Keep thein in their pangs, and the students 

from dinner. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 131 

And I said, in my dream, "When your tail 

is harangued, 
Next time, take it off somewhere else, and be 

hanged. 
If you give a poor creature puerperal fever. 
Will the 'glorious and pious,' and soforth 

relieve her 1 " 
Could your friends have guessed what was 

your rev'rence about, 
Or your excellent mother have known you 

were out * — 
I protest had you waltzed, without buckram to 

hide 
The region where horror is said to reside, 
Through byway and highway, through building 

and square, 
You could scarcely make people so titter and 

stare, 
As you do by that mixture of fudge and theology. 
Which, henceforth, in Maynooth and in Trinity 

College, I 
Hope after you they will name Thrashyology, 
IVe a thorough contempt for all ranting and 

spouting. 
For cackling and braying, for howling and 

shouting ; 

* The worthy lady is matron ot tlv^ li^^-VsjL ''Ssfis- 
pital, where our poet dreams. — Pri'nJteT'» De.ml. 



132 POEMS OF 

For hypocrites, suarlers, and foplings and fools, 

Political traders, and sycophant tools, 

And punch-inspired madmen to bombast who 

treat us — 
Interrupted by hiccough and mully-grubbitis ; 
But I say what I think both in prose and in 

song, 
And to none of those ranks I believe you 

belong. 
I am sure you're sincerer, and certainly madder 
Than the man who supposed he had frogs in 

his bladder, 
And was highly indignant at anyone joking 
In a way seemed to doubt of their bouncing 

and croaking; 
And you, if my calm diagnosis be right, 
Are not less affected with bladderumskite. 

The lion may roar, and the donkey may bray, 
And the fox and the jackal lay snares in our 

way; 
But the treason of friend or the hatred of foes 
Shall not alter our purpose the length of your 

nose. 
Through the waves round us raging, our fated 

career 
WHh gaze Gxed on heaven, right onward we 
steer. 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 133 

Charybdis and Scylla, the Whig and the Tory, 
May heighten the peril, but also the glory. 
In vain shall the " Arcades ambo " wax wroth, 
While we know and avoid and shall laugh at 

them both — 
'Tis a very stiff gale that would force us to 

tack, 
But the devil himself shall not make us drift 

back 
Till we reach the fair haven already in view 
With honour, and joy, and security too — 
Unconquered by force and by treason unhurt 
As sure — perhaps more — as a taiPs to your 

shirt. 



NO. Vm. — A REVERIE. 
[The Bard apostrophiseth a Skeleton.] 

Old friend, I rattle your lank phalanges, 
Forget my lapses of heart and pen ; 

May some one duck me in Nile or Ganges, 
If e'er I wander from you again. 

Before you judge me, dear Phos., remember 
You once had fueling as well as I : 

A ad man, like nature, ere ma^D^^xsiX^^t^ 
Maat glow and ripeii in &«t<i^ 3\i\i% 



134 POBMS OF 

In youthful Summer, with visions glorious, 

Through flow'ry valleys we dance along, 
And dream that ever, as now, victorious, 

The soul shall triumph in love and song. 
The shadows gather — the Autumn's sober- 

Est adumbration is o*er us cast ; 
And love and glory in chill October 

Like dead leaves wither in sorrow's blast. 
But while I sadly all this am thinking, 

I twig a wrinkle upon your phiz. 
Why, bless me! hang me! man, don't be winking; 

And stop your grinning, you toothless quiz. 
They reared me badly. I'll make my offspring 

(That's when I get them, of course, I mean) 
From Homer, Euclid, Moliere, and Gough 
spring — 

They only dye one absurdly green. 

[And sneereth at Terpsichore.] 

But make them, Jingo I unrivalled dancers ; 

I lost the fairest of maidens once, 
Because I knew not those blasted ** Lancers," 

And waltzing always affects my sconce. 
Alas I if " deux temps " might yet redeem her, 

Bj all that's dizzy, I dare not try, 
Because 'twould fracture, Vm. Buie, m^ f emut^ 
^nd let off fireworks from evtVkW e^^ \ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 135 

And I'm so dismal at rout and revel, 

So very gloomy at screech and ball, 
My hugest wonder is why the devil 

They ever ask me to go at all. 
That folk should wildly, in latest fashions, 

From Belle Assemblee or else Album, 
Thus write and gyrate, of human passions, 

To me seemed ever by far most rum. 
Through waltz and polka to tramp and wriggle, 

For sober student is fearful doom — 
To fall, while round you they grin and giggle — 

Tripped, dodged, and badgered about the 
room, 
As I'm a poet, it is my duty 

To smoke until I become sublime 
(Whene'er my harp-string is touched for beauty) 

The best of fibrine and salts of lime ; 
And so, defying the highest prices, 

I pop a lancet and puff cigars, 
(Though twist in common the Muse suffices,) 

Until, like Horace, " I touch the stars." 

[He trjeth the metallic style.] 

I squeezed her fingers, and then, grown bolder. 
Said such a Venus I never knew ; 

And many bouncers, Blarnesqud) I ^V^ ^^'^> 
Alike romantic and quile aa txu^ 



136 POEMS OF 

Satanic stanzas I wrote like Byron, 

And drew strong figures from red-hot coal, 
And swore the (mem. — 'tis tonic) iron 

Through lungs and gizzard had pierced my 
soul! 
To *' cap the climax " of botheration, 

Being "strictly moral/' I played the lyre 
(liar)— 
I raved of ** scorching rnfuriation," 

And Hecla--^tna-Vesuvian ire. 
The calculus, I calculated, 

Was very likely her heart to win, 
" Ethereally," if « sublimated " 

With steam and "fluxions" through thick 
and thin. 
I said — " Dear maid, you resemble vastly 

A lighthouse decking some mountain brow, 
Bound which the billows in * orgies ghastly ' 

Kick up an everlasting row." 
With stars I stufifed my speech, and with Mick 

Scott, the wizard, all in a breath — 
I plunged in labyrinths logarithmic, 

And rode poor Newton almost to death. 
And when I asked her for life to take me, 

And she, dear creature, my ways and 
means, 
I said the Iron Archduke would xs^^kQ me 
AssiBtant'Surgeon to the Horae M&t\\x^ \ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 137 

And how affected to see me — ^very ! — 

Was that dear kinsman, the Iron Duke, 
Who gave me, weeping, tinctura ferrij 

A sword, and fastened it with a hook. 
I mystified her on conic sections, 

" Fog-horns," and diving, and battlements, 
*' Lay pontiffs," brandy, and Clare elections, 

And " gorgeous ethic experiments." 

[Finale.] 

We'll drop the subject — I hate long stories. 

Onions, spiders, and " nice " young men — 
I hate the English, both Whigs and Tories — 

Suffice, we never shall meet again. 
And so, old fellow, another Winter 

We'll work together in prose and rhyme. 
Unless a scalpel, or awkward splinter. 

Or fever, floor me before my time. 



NO. IX. — MY COUSIN. 

Sharp goddess ! who rulest o'er ** chambers to 

let" 
To adventurous youth for the most thou canst 

get; 
Of all the Olympians the att{\i\\^%\> d^&^^x^ 
Delighting in groans ol tli©\)ac\iAo\ Vi^%«t^ 



138 POEMS OF 

Who bleeds at thy altar in exquisite pain, 
While thy temple resounds with his shriekings 

in vain. 
Oh ! smile on my song — 'tis peculiarly thine ; 
And behold, as an offering, I bring to thy 

shrine 
A black eye, a rent heart, and a desolate 

pocket, 
And a curl of false hair in a copper-gilt locket. 

Six days had elapsed, almost seven, indeed, in 
Silence and peace at my last two-pair Eden — 
When at dusk, as the Muse for her coffee was 

ringing, 
I was scared by the wail of Miss Lovelittle 

singing. 
As I asked Mrs. L. but for quiet and water, 
I never had heard of her musical daughter 
Till a villainous jarvey from Booterstown 

brought her. 
Young girls, if pretty, may sing as they please ; 
For a man comes to think, in such case, by 

degrees, 
That no Venus could warble such strains 

cytherean 
From her sweet ary-teno-epigloUidean ; * 

* Part of the larynx, the 0T©»ia ol ^o\g«>. 



KICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 139 

And I could, from the havoc song made in my 

heart, allege 
That Cupid resides in the thyroid cartilage,* 
But if no great shakes to be heard or be seen, 
C'est une autre affaire — 'tis "more t'other," I 

ween. 
And so when I heard that Miss L. had grown 

hoarse, 
I was sorry — oh, yes! — very — rather — of course: 
But seeing her downcast, to soothe her afflic- 
tion, 
I tickled her first, and then wrote a prescrip- 
tion — 
She left me all smiles, and I never saw finer 
Displayed zygomatici major and minor, 
I wrote '*pulv. sacch. albi and mitte sex tales," 
For this musical miracle's chordce vocales — 
Let her spare for a time her angelical larynx. 
And deluge with tea all her fauces and pharynx. 
She by no means could sing, nay, was scarcely 

to speak, 
And so I had peace for one fortunate week. 
It is needless to say she grew rapidly better, 
And sent me a perfumed triangular letter 
Enclosing an air, and, by way of variety, 
A card for a squeal at some howling society. 



* Part of the \Myux. 



140 POEMS OF 

All this time, with mamma, I was labelled 

perfection — 
Such a lodger, she said, was a pride, a protection, 
A phoenix, a griffin, a very uncommon 'anj 
Iq fact, an unparalleled two-pair phenomenon ; 
So quiet, good-humoured, so studious and 

prudent. 
And ** almost a sanctified " medical student 
Kow I thought so much blarney suspiciously 

odd, 
And allied to a haddock's first cousin — a cod ; 
For Tve lived long enough, though not tooth- 
less, to learn 
They who plaster your face take revenge on 

your stern ; 
And the reader will see I was not very wrong 
Ere he reach to the end of this sorrowful song. 

This summer my cousin came up from the 

South, 
Jast because a <^ strange kiss" was annoying 

her month ; 
And now-a-days ladies think nothing of hopping 
Fifty miles after breakfast to go an hour shop- 
ping. 
Sweet Mary, my cousin, from Heaven inherits 
Good nature and beauty, good ^^n^^ wA VA^Vv 
spirits; 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 141 

Without affectation of fashion or lore, 

She is just what you see her, no less and no 

more ; 
With wit rich and brilliant as summer-dropt 

raiu, 
To the breast of the weakest she never caused 

pain ; 
Yet the passion and pride and the love of 

Tipp'rary 
At intervals flash from my wild cousin Mary — 
No prude on the one hand, nor flirt on the 

other, 
And, in fact, I'm her cousin — thank God ! — not 

her brother. 
Twas natural, of course, in my gladaess and 

haste. 
That somehow my arm should encircle her 

waist ; 
It stole round, and was met with such artless 

good will, 
That I wish from my soul it were trembling 

there still. 
Well, we chatted a long time, as cousins will 

chat, 
Of friends and relations — of this one and 

that; 
And between every story of that one and this 
/ kiBsed her — as surely a covx^m xsi^'^ V\sa, 



142 PO^MS OF 

Here I can't quote the JIftthers for aid, to be sure, 
But I could the less nice and more musical 

Moore. 
They say contiguity aids inflammation, 
But here it shared not my complete isolation, 
Who, in bachelor loneliness, all the year round 
Live shut up from my kind, like a bull in a 

pound. 
"Come, tell me," said Mary, displaying her 

glove 
And the little hand in it, " were you ever in 

love? 
The truth — the whole truth — no concealment 

should be 
Between you and a friend — I mean cousin — 

like me." 
'* In love ! my dear Mary ! ay, dozens of times, 
And Pve thereupon written some acres of 

rhymes ; 
But, though arrows were fixed in my bosom as 

thickly 
As fruit in plum-pudding, I convalesce quickly, 
Unaided by aught save philosophy's pure ray 
And the youthful heart's vis medicatrix naturae. 
When a lover is gridironed thoroughly brown, 
Let him try homoeopathy sooner than drown. 
And with this dose of folly drive the other one 

down. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 143 

Talk of gunshots and ilabs! — but there's no- 
thing, by gorra, kills 
A man off so sure as hyperPropkied awrides — 
That fatal derangement, so surely advancing 
In the train of pic-nics, Yalentining, and dancing. 
Some men have their hearts, between flirts and 

flirtation, 
In a state of perpetual acute inflammation." 
But Mary liked not such a jesting reply, 
And the dawn was o'ercast in the blue of her eye, 
And, as cloudlets career from the summer 

wind's chase, 
The ghost of a frown flittered over her face ; 
But deponent avers, on his harp, 'twas about 
The most wretched attempt ever made at a pout. 
Still, presto ! at once to the dismal I glided ; 
For poets are prisms, and all many-sided. 
So let us look gloomy, and classic, and blue, 
And cut with the comic the anapsests too. 

" My cousin ! if the poet's heart 

Unveil to human eyes 
The wound of memory's poisoned dart, 

That every balm defies, 
'Tis not to soothe a morbid gloom, 

Or cause thy tears to flow, 
That I unbar the bosom's tomb 

And * wake the bumi ^roe ' 



144 POEMS OF 

Beneath, in funeral darkness hid, 

Young Hope encharnelled lies — 
Nor would I lift the coffin lid 

Except to Mary's eyes. 
And yet my tale is briefly told — 

A tale of every day — 
The heart in boyhood e'en made cold, 

Too early thrown away. 
Some hearts there are will twine their 
strings 

Like tendrils of the vine, 
Round all contiguous lovely things, 

And such, alas ! was mino. 
I worshipped all things beautiful — 

I loved the low wind's tune ; 
I loved at night to hear the bird 

That serenades the moon ; 
I loved the roaring cataract 

That thunders from the rock. 
And breaks its solid prison walls 

In fragments with the shock. 
I loved the bounding thunderbolt 

Among the Irish hills — 
I loved to see its lurid glare 

Illume the whitened rills. 
And faery minstrels round me played 

Upon the midnight breeze, 
And from the founts 1 caWfed w.^ «^\^\^& 
And syrens from t\xe aea». 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILUAMS. U5 

Aglaia, fair Euphrosjne, 

Thalia — Graces three — 
With linked limbs, from Tenedos 

Came o'er the silver sea ; 
And all the bright Gastalides, 

From cool Pierian caves, 
With zoneless bosoms, sang to me, 

And tritons from the waves. 
The waves! — the waves! — the Atlantic 
waves ! 

Like plumed hosts that bound, 
And, like thy tides, my spirit swelled, 

Dark Ocean ! at thy sound. 
But not the fires that flash on high, 

Nor streams beneath that roll. 
Like woman's hallowed beauty made 

The music of my soul. 
And her sweet smile o'er all my dreams 

Like stars on fountains played, 
And in the vesper hour I heard 

Her whispers thrill the shade ; 
And round her graceful form I flung 

The purple clouds of song, 
Until the vision dazzled me, 

Although it lived not long. 
Now undeceived, no more a lover. 
Life's brightest, saddest dream is over. 



146 POEMS OF 

I toiled up Love's Vesuvius, resolved to die or 

win it, 
And, like L'Homme Blazde^ find * it only smokes, 

there's nothing in it.' 
I only hope for friendship now. 

To cheer my lonely way, 
And chase remembrance from my brow, 

With gently winning ray ; 
Then sun me in thy cloudless eyes, 

Be all the past forgiven. 
And should remorseful mem'ries rise, 

Oh, speak of Hope and Heaven !" 

(Mem. — ^This fusillade of pathos I have always 

found victorious, 
If properly supported by the muscle amato- 

rius,*) 

'^ But truce to sadness and digression. 
Fbicij ma chere, the entire confession. 
Thrice my shafts the fates have parried — 
My first flame's dead, my second married — 
The third (she's gone to France) one day 
In tears and sofa-cushions lay — 
So, drawing innocently near her, 
I tried to rally, soothe, and cheer her. 
Why spin the tale 1 In that blest hour 
Long-prisoned Love proclaimed his pow'r ; 



* A muscle of the orbil wae^ m o^^%. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 147 

Wild words I spoke, the most sincere 
That Song e'er poured in Beauty's ear ; 
And oh I her words, remembered dearly, 
Still ring within my bosom clearly — 
And though the links are broken now 
That bound us then with mutual vow, 
I know that then her words were true — 
Her feelings' springs were fresh and new — 
Her melting lips, Love's very shrine, 
Then ever warmly welcomed mine. 
No practised airs had she t' assist her, 
Sweet rose ! she trembled when I kissed her — 
And as the tides forth from my soul 
Of love and song would mingled roll, 
She clasped in tears her minstrel lover, 
Like flow'rs from which the dews rill over." 

Here to make the tale impressive, my arm again 

stole round her. 
{Mem. — This very artless gesture seemed in no 

way to astound her.) 

"My fourth" "Oh! come," said Mary, 

" don't you think that three will do 1 
Now, I don't believe one-third of what you 

tell me can be true — 
Were you ever once undoubtedly]" "Dear 

Mary, yes, alas I 
And here behold her porttait.\'* widwW^^^J^^^ 

to the glass. 



148 POEMS OF 

Now, all this time, in love being a wretched 

tactician, 
I forgot that the keyhole commands our position, 
And the landlady, crouched like a cat in a passion, 
And one eye closed up in the sharpshooter 

fashion, 
Was squinting — no eye ever squinted as can 

her's — 
At our simple endearments and primitive man- 
ners. 
Till her glance, that would turn new milk into 

cider, 
Flashed fire through the keyhole, and murdered 

a spider, 
Who therein, like Napoleon, with gusto and 

skill, 
Was applying geometry merely to kill. 
The mine was exploded — she says, in a fume, 
She wouldn't have such goings on in her room. 
'* You romp with the housemaid, you flirt with 

my nieces. 
And have broken the peace of my daughter to 

pieces." 

Now, reader, there's far less connexion between 

her 
And me than there ia ^tvrvxV> ^ cat^s and 
femur ; 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLUMS. U9 

But this was a piece of artistical dodging 

To keep Mary away evermore from my lodging. 

Yet I answered her calmly and pleasantly — 

"Ah! so!" 
Hitching up, with a smile, my retiring Tom- 

maso,* 
"Pray, ma'am, would you think me so very 

imprudent. 
If a poet, a brick, and a medical student, 
Eeceived at her hands that indulgent humanity 
Which, with shower-baths and time, soothes 

both love and insanity 1 
But as to her peace. Major Thunderbolt broke 

it. 
Put that in your pipe, my dear madam, and 

smoke it. 
And to prove that I know your pet lobster, I 

wager 
A month's rent that I give a true sketch of the 

Major : 
He has gooseberry eyes, and a conical head, 
With an elephant's snout, but amazingly red ; 
Long, lank, incoherent, with swaggering pace, 
Supercilious and don't-care-a-damn-for-you face, 
And a nursery of whisker from dewlap to pole, 
Like a garrisoned rampart defending the whole." 

* KttZ^o, Tomxay. 



150 POEMS OF 

But here her brow flushed to a sort of a carioa« 

Anti-teetotalish atropurpureus. 

And she faced me full front, wheeling swiftly 

about on 
Her — dear me ! — her — thank God for Greek— r 

epiglowton.* 
Ah ! woman, that tongue of thine — ^young ones 

and old — 
Is worse than a scalpel, by Jove, when you 

scold, 
And, Bellona-like, charge, in life's battle, across 

us 
With your genio-cherito-chrondrio-glossus : — ^ 
" As for Lucy, Lord knows it were better the 

Major, 
Or a private, indeed, than a quack, should 

engage her. 
Oh, yes ! you're a doctor 1 but, faith, if your pill 
[s all like what I got, you'll cure less than you 

kill; 
For a fortnight I hadn't an hour to myself, 
And they settled a cat that found one on the shelf. 
Though you think you look wise in your specs, 

since you got 'em, 
Had you twenty glass eyes, you're a humbug at 

bottom." 

* BuBtle — Epif upon, and Glo^^lto8. 
f A muscle of the tongvie. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 151 

So profanely she spoke to my face, Heaven 

bless her ! 
Oh I were I a bear, jast for once to caress her I 
Had they tickled your bustle for Greek till you 

stuck to it — 
Were you thrashed for " amando," as I was, bad 

luck to it — 
Were you bothered with " tupto," and " harum," 

and "horum," 
Trigonometry, sines, and the '^ pons asinorum/' 
And driven in youth to profound desperation 
By fluxions, cube-roots, and quadratic equation ; 
With diphthongs, and triphthongs, and prosody 

crammed, 
Till you wished all the poets most thoroughly 

damned ; 
And gone through all this scientifical hum 
With a sugar-cane constantly kissing your bom- 
Bazine, you would place an implicit reliance 
On the spectacled pontiffs of Latin and scienee, 
Who have thundering names for all possible 

herbs — 
Who can wriggle like eels through irregular 

verbs — 
Who are equally ready for fractures or frac- 
tions. 
And of Trismus or grammar can solve the cou- 

tractiona. 



152 POEMS OF 

Bat vain all my efforts her wrath to allay — 
As vain as to call for accounts at Burgh-quay.* 
I was put, without mercy, instanter to rout, 
And a bill is suspended where late I hung out, 
To lure other gulls to a similar doom 
In that poluphloisboiacal f two-pair back room. 
Where screeching and strumming o'erburthen 

the air, 
And one's do-re-mi-fa-sol-la'd into despair. 
Did they talk of statistics, the moon, or geo- 
logy, 
Mathematics, hydraulics, the tides, ichthyo- 
logy- 
Did they constantly quote Lytton Bulwer and 

Byron, 
And were blue as the perferrocyanate of iron 4 
All this, as at parting that cracker I told her, 
A lodger, like Atlas, must bear on his shoulder. 
But Atlas himself would undoubtedly swoon 
If thus harrowed by harpsichords never in tune, 
Where daily Bellini in torture expires 
On a musical rack — the most hateful of lyres. 



* When these lines were first printed, some of the 
public journals were calling for a publication of the 
monetary accounts of the Kepeal Association, which 
used to meet in Conciliation Hall on Burgh-quay. 
f Load resounding. 
tPruBsisai blue. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 153 

No more — no more — oh ! never more by me 
A quarter's rent for lodging shall be dae ; 
A month is all, I sorrowfally see, 

Chambers^ however beautifal and new, 
The temporary tent of him can be 

Who seems first cousin to the Wandering 
Jew; 
From front to rear, from top to bottom roving — 
Destined for ever to " push on, keep moving." 

No more — ^no more — oh ! never more a d — n 
The bard shall care for puffs, in prose or 
verse, 
Of board and lodging. It is all a sham^ 

Delusion, mockery, and snare, or worse. 
Full sure, from sad experiences, I am^ 
The curse of Cain is this peculiar curse ; 
The most zigzag of comets ruled my birth. 
And I am doomed '' a lodger on the earth." 

I must absquotulate — perhaps I can 

Live in a jarvey — ah ! but then, the toll ! 
Ye Whigs I Til take a place— the watch- 
house van — 
(Boll on, thou deep and long blue crusher, 
roll I) 
A hearse, a wherry, turf-boat, or sedan. 
Fm weary of con]ectuie/i^xi.xD^l ^^w^ — 



154 POEMS OF 

Stop I stay ! " To let, Dew cottage, neat and 

airy" — 
ril go at once and visit it with Mary. 

Yenus ! 'twas blushing with the rose's bloom 
Aroand green doors and trellises that 
clung, 
And bees, at noontide, through the fragrant 
gloom 
With filmy wings o'er teeming flow'rets 
hung, 
Until away, through glowing furze and broom, 
The winged chemists sweetly homeward 
sung; 
Ripe fruits drooped down, enwreathed by sweet 

wild briar, 
Sleeping embraced, bathed in meridian fire. 

Around the windows trailers cling and lean. 
The south wind softly through the case- 
ment sighs ; 
In yonder bower of laurels, ever green, 
A marble Cupid, half in ambush, lies, 
His arrows shining the rich flowers between, 
As through thy ringlets, Mary, flash thine 
eyes. 
And here might sport fair children half a 
dozen — 
Would it not answer us, my loveVj co^««i^ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 165 

"Us I" said my coasin, deeply blushing — 
" us !" 
But, if surprise gave forth that magic tone, 
Surprise is queen of music. And while thus 

Silent we stood within that bower alone, 
Echo or Cupid clearly answered, " Us /" 
We gazed together on the sculptured 
stone — 
And our eyes met. If thou hast not been a 

lover, 
Reader, 'twere vain the sequel to discover. 



NO. X. — ^THE CIRILLA PULCHELLA. 

Let no one suppose, for a moment, I've got any 
Notion of deeply discoursing on botany, 
For my love horticultural only began 
As I travelled, last week, in the Toom caravan ; 
When the sweetest of florists first taught me ta 

love 
The startling appellative mentioned above. 
It was dark the first stage, but as day slowly 

broke. 
One by one, with a yawn, all the "insides'^ 

awoke. 
And the first words I heard were, " Take care, 

Isabella — 
Take care and don't CT\x&\i ^^C\rS^^^viSsScL^5sa: 



156 POBMS OF 

'Twas a lady that spoke to her daughter, who'd 

got 
A very small flower in a very queer pot ; 
The Cirilla Pulchella — for florists, like fame, 
Often give to small things a magnificent name. 
Ad rem — all that day 'twas my fortunate lot 
To take care of the daughter, the flow'r, and 

the pot. 
The two latter I pass, for my tale is confined 
To the first, who was young, unaffected, and 

kind. 
Intelligent, fair, and with spirit and sense 
To silence a fool or resent an offence. 
What wonder, then, that, though she'd lecture 

for hours 
On the nature and culture of all sorts of flow'rs. 
My abstracted remark, when I heard it all 

through, 
Was " Oh 1 what a meltingly beautiful blue," 
'* That 1 'tis pink," with a smile my instructress 

replies. 
" Blue as heaven," I answered, and gazed in her 

eyes. 
For an hour after this my imprudent reply 
Isabella was silent, and tried to look shy. 
(With a compliment rarely the graces inspire me, 
Bat the next timQ I try one '^ the devil admire 
me.**) 



RICHARD D'aLTON WILLIAMS. 167 

At length our eyes met, and her' laugh, sweet 

and clear, 
I wonder mamma, though asleep, didn't hear. 
Then friendly relations again were renewed, 
And the heads of our former flow'r lectures 

reviewed ; 
No more like a tortoise the caravan steals — 
Twas Cupid in traces, 'twas love upon wheels : 
I thought like steam-engines the wretched 

hacks ran, 
Whilst I feasted on fiow'rs in the Toom caravan. 
But such bliss could not last. As Mountrath 

we approach, 
A very wet gentleman entered the coach. 
And two very stout ones, both practical dum- 
mies, 
Till we shivered with damp, and were squeezed 

into mummies. 
Now, the very wet gentleman talked very 

much 
Of turnips and cabbage, Swedish and Dutch, 
And described Durham bulls, from their tails to 

their noses, 
Till he silenced all converse of tulips and roses ; 
But happily her lectures had made me so 

wise, 
I could now read the " laugaa^<^ ot ^<;iVtA" \xv 

lier eyes. 



158 POEMS OF 

This I did with great zeal, and I think could 

discern 
She was pleased with a pupil so anxious to 

learn. 
Here let me digress, for a moment, to say, 
The parterre she so loves on her cheek and brow 

lay- 
Young roses and lilies the pnrest were there, 
For Nature, uncrippled by art, made her fair. 
The heart in that breast, by corset unconfined, 
Heaved, panted, and glowed at a thought of 

the mind. 
(Why "paint the rose," fair onesi why seek 

you to clasp 
Of Venus the bust in the waist of a wasp 1 
'Tis a blasphemy thus to presume you improve 
The last work with which God crowned His 

labour of love.) 
Then, unaided by aught save her own swelling 

muscles, 
She never once dreamed of those horrible 

bustles. 
Hymen ! with pity look down on the man 
Who discovers his wife to be horse-hair and 

bran. 
To return. The wet gentleman talked about hops, 
Bank charters and railways, ttxe -we^AiViet wid 
crops; 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 169 

Then he ventured on politics, spoke of the 

laws, 
Of the crimes of Tipp'rary, but not of their cause, 
" The soil," said the wet man, " with murderers 

swarms," 
But here Isabella at once took up arms. 
She spoke with a kindling expression might 

serve a 
Flora arrayed in the casque of Minerva ; 
Such, of yore, on Bamane, of a huntress and 

queen, 
Was the glance and the spirit, the voice and 

the mien. 
*' When the beast of the forest is chased to his 

lair. 
He turns and destroys in the rage of despair ; 
But men, fierce as they, must behold without 

ire 
All they love, by your bloodhounds tormented, 

expire. 
And, forsooth, all the crimes of the land they 

have done. 
If, to thousands you murder, they immolate 

one; 
If blood, fraud, and tears have built Widow- 
scourge Hall, 
Shall we weep when the thing and vt.% ^x^Vj^'^^ 



160 POEMS OF 

Thereupon the wet gentleman shivered; but 

more 
Spake not till at Dublin he floated ashore ; 
Then I heard him '' Lord I " in a faint accent 

say, 
As he dived from the door and swam swiftly 

away. 
Thus our journey (here o'er), like the great one 

of life, 
Had its fever and noise, its flirtation and strife ; 
In the last stage of life, too, thus friendship 

must sever, 
And who cheered the long way have departed 

for ever. 
Thus I thought — and the thought was twin 

child with a sigh — 
When I found I should bid my sweet florist 

good-bye. 
Yet gaily I tried to assure Isabella- 
While I settled her shawl and took down her 

umbrella. 
And drew from its niche the Girilla Pulchella — 
That, though there can scarcely be breathing 

a man 
Who detests more than I do a slow caravan — 
Though I hate to sit six in what only holds 

three — 
Though I hate to pay dear for equ\vo<i«X\ft«b — 



RIC5HARD D'ALTON WILUABfS. 161 

Though I hate to be cramped till no joint 

knows its socket, 
The hat crushed on my head, the wine spilled 

in my pocket — 
Though I hate, with bronchitis when travelling 

to town, 
Fat ladies t' insist to keep both windows 

down — 
Or, if feverish and sick, some fresh air I desire, 
To hear stout folk declare in a breeze they'd 

expire — 
Notwithstanding all these, and a great many 

more, 
That make a slow coach an unparalleled bore — 
I declared that, with her, the abhorred caravan 
Like a high-meitled steam-engine all the way 

ran ; 
And the journey of life in her presence would 

be 
All railway, full pressure, first carriage, to me ; 
But mamma, who had missed her, here came 

to the door — 
I pressed her small hand, and beheld her no 

more. 



\. 



162 POEMS OF 

NO. XI. — TO THE FRAULBIN VON BUMMSL. 



« 



If jou'd go for to think for to dare for to try to beat 

me at lyrics, 
Man would fall down with the laughing, and woman 

go off in hysterics." 



in vain alchemic hieroglyphs to charm me 

now, whereas I hum 
Love-songs all day, and look as pale as oxide of 

potassium. 
How bitterly my bosom has yonr coldness, at 

the revel, stung, 
For falsehood smells like stinking stone,* and 

broken vows are devil's dung.f 
Oh ! did I own, far, far away, some spicy and 

tobaccoed isle, 
I'd smoke and sigh the livelong day, and curse 

the salts of kakodyle^ 
With sulphuretted hydrogen^ ammonia^ and kaHum^ 
And sit most sentimentally in buffo, and Haynes 

Bailey hum. 
I cause among the Burschen X all considerable 

merriment, 
By swallowing the alcohol intended for experi- 
ment ; 

* A variety of carbonate of lime, 
f StercuB JJiaboli— AMU&ce^iidAi. 
t Students. 



RICHARD d' ALTON WILLIAMS. 163 

And from the grave professors, too, incnr enor- 
mous odium. 
For once, instead of tea, I filled their pot with 

salt of sodium ; 
The world gu£faws, not without cause, to see 

me quite dejected thus — 
My languages forgotten, and my sciences 

neglected thus. 
The old may scold, the young give tongue, fall 

flat the fat, and laugh the lean, 
To see me spill the glyceryl^ and fill my pipe 

with naphthaline. 
Contract four flexors, lovely Frau, and take me 

to your pectorals — 
A doctor skilled to kill or cure and readily 

detect your ills. 
Oh ! think of what a treasure in pertussis' or 

sciatica^ 
In catalepsy^ mullygrubs, or fades hypocratica. 
Beware, my fair, or hear me swear, by Ahriman, 

that if you're stifl*. 
Your acid frown shall, slap bang down, preci- 
pitate me o'er a clifl*. 
Farewell, then, dear companions, and farewelJ, 

cence deorvm^ 
Where we talk'd de rebus omnibus^ with notce 

variorum^ 
But always perorated witVi 8^ «decL^^^ Y^xv^ssy* 



164 POBMS OF 

We supped on theohrominey * and perhaps ab 

times we quaffed a late 
Crucible of alcohol, disputing of a napMhalaUt 
Till our noses glowed like dnnaba/Ty t and 

many a yellow rum bum- 
Per, hot and cold, flowed on like gold, or 

iodine of plumbum. 
Retorts sublime, we slaked our lime, until the 

morning star, boys, 
Beheld us fall, with beakers | all, and roll 

among the carboys. § 
But now a very absent man, I've scarcely got 

a word to say. 
Or, if I show my teeth at all, 'tis something 

most absurd to say ; 
And even at the operas, among the gods and 

• top-row lights, 
I ruminate on behemoths and chew the cud on 

coprclites. 
And shall I howl to Venus still, as dogs to 

Luna wail, 
When robbed by cruel science of the birthright 

of a tail 1 



* Literally, " food of the gods." 
t Red Bolphuret of meroury — vermillion. 
tTallglaaaea. 

§ Vessels guarded with wicker-work, g|eii«n\V5 >m/ 
for preserving Urge quantities oi conceaticaAAdi oa\^' 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 165 

And shall I in suspension hang, to glorify thee, 

eh 1 Nay, 
Nor in the meerschaum plonge * by way of 

balneum arence.^ 
We are not isomorphovs J in our souls, thou 

fair deceiver, 
And I to coquetry's retort decline to play receiver. 
Nor would my heart amaigamatey^ith that of a 

divinity 
Who could not cling to mine with more than 

chemicdl affinity. 
No ! fuse me in a furnace blast ! Fll sing that 

Celtic air, 
" Go to the d — and shaJce yourself," to banish 

my despair. 
For what's a queen in diamonds, with her 

coronation garb on, 
But Calcium and Phosphorus^ § Ecematosine, t 

and Oarbon ? U 
But we who breathe the "laughing gas" ♦* are 

something more than lime ; 
For who, save gods and alchemists, can make 

the base sublime f 

* Sea foam. f Sandbath. t Similar. 

§ We presume that the writer puts caloium and 
phosphorus loosely for phosphate of oxide of calcium, 
in allusion to the principal constituents of the skeleton. 

II A compound of the blood, from aixwx* 

if The diamond is pure caxVK>ik. 

** Protoxide of nitrogea. 



166 POEMS OF 

I'll take unto me cracibles and capsales, tubes 
and funnels, 

And pour down mine sesophagus^rich German 
wine in runnels ; 

And though my frozen Fraidein like to Aphro- 
dite * wore a form, 

'Twill act upon my occiput like ether and like 
chloroform ; 

And ever on mine optics shall the vision of 
that maiden jar, 

Ere while that thrilled me with a shock more 
powerful than a LeydenjarA 

MORAL. 

'Tis evil wind blows nothing good. Although 

love fled away, 
The minstrel found himself a lyre — the cove 

found thus a bay ; 
For as winds from forests music, or as tongues 

from bells ding-dong, 
Ajs fire from lead draws silver, so does love 

from mortals song. 



* Venus. 

t A jar in which the electricity generated by the 
cjlinder is accumulated. 



RIOHABD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 167 

DEAR LAW.* 

When comes the day hU bills to pay 

And place them on the file, 
A poet's dans get nought but puns 

Or tropes, and ^^ splendid bile ; " 
And bards are seen for ever green, 

And poetesses blue ; 
Bat shiners red for him are spread 

Who fondly clings to you, 
Dear Law ! 

Who fondly clings to you. 

When I behold judicial gold 

(Tis thus the lawyer deems), 
Harmonious fudge ne'er made a judge, 

So damn poetic dreams. 
I think that verse, however terse, 

For Crampton would not do ; 
So with my lyre I light the fire — 

We must talk jprose to you, 
Dear Law ! 

We must talk prose to you. 

My grandsire died the **jug" inside, 
They bagged and caged him there ; 

His only dodge to board and lodge 
Too long in one two-pair. 



A parody <m the** DokcIjkdA^^ <A '' S!iA«o«Q^\>o^^ 



168 POBMS OF 

Through court and lane he fled in vain — 

The bum more svpiftly flew, 
And popped him in for want of tin, 

A hopeless slave to you, 
Dear Law! 

A hopeless slave to you. 

My boyish ear was cocked to hear 

How Blackburne garnered ore, 
Expert to wheel with Grey or Peel, 

And still amassing more — 
Of those who know to "jump Jim Crow " 

The philosophic few — 
Until I bum like them to turn, 

And dance the Bat-waltz too, 
Dear Law ! 

And dance the Bat-waltz too. 

What way is best to line my nest, 

To find, I much desire : 
But this I know — song's not the go — 

And shun the blasted lyre. 
So here, you twig, my trusty Vig,* 

The reason I withdrew 
From Poet's nook — in peace to hook 

Some splendid fish from you, 

Dear Law ! 
Some noble whale from ^ovi. 



* -A fufm deplumt uaed by B. ^. ^'CiwcVaKj 



RICHARD D*ALTON WILLIAMS. 169 



ADVICE TO A YOUNG POET. 

L 

Snooks, my friend, I see with sorrow 
How you waste much precious time — 

Notwithstanding all you borrow — 
In concocting wretched rhyme. 

Do not think that I fling any 

Innuendoes at your head, 
When I state the fact that many 

Mines of Wicklow teem with lead. 

Snooks, my friend, you are a ninny 
(Class, mammalia — ^genus, muff,) 

If you hope to make a guinea 
By such caterwauling stuff. 

Lives of poets all remind us 
We may write " demnition " fine, 

Leaving still unsolved behind us 
The problem, "How are bards to dine ?" 

Problem which perhaps some others, 
As through life they dodge about, 

Seeing, shall suppose oux mo\iVkSt% 
Did not know Ibat w% nv^t^ ^^^q^ 



170 POBICS OF 

Hang the bard, and cat the punster, 
Fling aU rhyming to the deace, 

Take a business tour through Munster, 
Shoot a landlord — be of use. 

Man, dear Snooks, was born a sinner 
(You owe me, by the way, a pound) — 

And, therefore, daily craves a dinner 
While this treadmill world goes round. 

Bound and round it whirls for ever. 
We must tread it for our sins, 

Up and down, and resting never — 
If we stop, it breaks our shins. 

Do not mince the matter, neighbour — 
You must work as others do ; 

Up at cockcrow to your labour, 
And at midnight working too. 

. Or, would you earn an easy penny. 
Try some old established dodge ; 
Bigotry is best of any. 
At i or an Orange Lodge. 

How I wish, Snooks, that some bug 

Or flea would give your back a squeeze ; 
People have no time for humW^ 
When obliged to fight tihe &«»». 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS, 171 

This I learned in Newgate prison, 
Where in hoars of dreary night, 

Ere the dismal san had risen, 
They charged me, centre, left, and right. 

AU my skill was ineffective, 

Horse and foot they rushed in droves, 
So I prayed that a detective 

Might be sent to nab the coves. 

Bat the Board could not determine 

On a sacrifice so great ; 
Newgate bugs, like other vermin. 

Are protected by the State. 

But this, O Snooks, is a digression, 
A sort of turning from the road ; 

The more grandiloquent expression 
(See Lexicon) is episode. 

And when, hereafter, learnedly, posterity 
Shall club together their sagacious miigs. 

To criticise my poems with severity. 
They'll greatly prize this episode of bugs. 

IL 

Or try and do something in pills, a la Holloway. 
Mem. — He cured me of dum.^«^ wjl^ \&«k y» t>fc 
sais guaif 



172 POBMS OF 

For one of his puffs drove them instantly all 
away, 
By causing a healthy, uproarious guffaw. 

O wonderful sage, if thy pills upon paper 
Can force a poor poet like me to grin, 

And, in spite of blue devils and duns, to caper, 
Oh I what, were they taken — and I also — in 1 

But too much I fear thee, thou wag of a wijiard. 

And therefore thy comical globes I shun ; 
For I know to such pitch they would tickle my 
gizzard, 
I should split into fragments with downright 
fun. 

But 'tis pleasant to see our enlightened neigh- 
bours 
Bolting thy pills with their daily bread, 
Since the late Lord Aldborough crowned thy 
labours 
With the prettiest chips of his own block- 
head. 

Adieu, thou first of Britannia's jpUlers ! 

Sure sign of her rank in the march of mind ; 
Such taste for quackery long be still hers, 
And thine by paffing to raiB^ tVi^ \nxA. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 173 

Oh! surely the Heaveii's avenging rod 
Parsaes the besotting empire's track, 

Whose capital scarcely believes in Grod, 
Bat has faith profound for the genus quack. 



III. 



'Twould also pay you well to pander 
To senseless faction's furious zeal, 

And whelm with curses, taunts, and slander, 
Who at a different A.ltar kneel. 

Thus Thrasham Gregg, who worships Roden, 
That God of bigots, knaves, and gulls. 

The Orange Moloch, Irish Odin, 

Who quaffs hot blood from Papist skulls, 

Damns every soul to fiery gulf or 

Burning sea, to sink or swim 
In filthy pitch or stinking sulphur, 

Save and except the Thrashites and him. 

And long shall Thrasham enjoy his revels, 
And Master ' shall rant and rail, 

For bigotry, best beloved of devils, 
Shall thrive while ttiey'tft «JcAft \a ^^%%.n«^« 



174 POElfS OF 

Therefore, O Snooks^ become a canter, 
And cant the cants of this canting day, 

For political knave and polemical ranter 
Are the very best possible flams to pay. 



VALENTINE TO THE POETESSES OF 
THE "NATION." 

Murder will out. Sweet nymphs, you 

know it's 
Now and evermore the Poet's 
Nature, destiny, and duty 
To worship Freedom, Song, and Beauty ; 
But when they meet the three combined — 
Heroic song from maiden mind. 
And lovely poetesses find. 
As you are, doubtless, tuneful maidens — 
They drink in love at every cadence, 
They cease to act or think correctly, 
And go stark mad with love directly. 
Well, we, the poets of the Nation, 
Have long time owned your fascination. 
Cupid and his sweet mother, Venus, 
Have played the very deuce between us ; 
For three long years we*ve had no quarrels 
About our harps, or Bwoxda, oi \kqxi^&\ 



BICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 175 

But now, by Jove, it's come to that^ 

Unless unto the peace you bind us. 
We'll die like the Kilkenny cat, 

And only leave "a tale " behind us. 
Our name — we Nation bards — is " Legion," 
From harp-famed Erin's every region — 
And you, alas ! but half-a-dozen. 
So what a pickle you have us in. 
For, if by figures we decided. 

The sum would end, I'm much afraid, in 
" The Minstrel Boys " by six divided — 

Just five score bards to every maiden ) 
So without blood to end the matter 
We rendezvoused at Stoneybatter, 
Unstrung our lyres, and in a trice 
Six hundred minstrels roared for dice. 



But who can paint the awful hour 
That we at Stoneybatter passed, 
And how, with prayer to ev'ry power, 
For each, in turn, the die was casti 
How hope and fear within us battled. 
While solemnly the bones were rattled f 
All who to get a peep were able. 
Grin, frown, and swear around the tab! 
One winks, another bites his lips, 
A third strong punch to cliQ^t Ic^osi ^y^^\ 



I 



176 POEMS OF 

Some faintly make spasmodic jokes, 
But far the greater portion smokes. 

By painful effort of the will 

A few were able to sit still ; 

But many more in vain dissembled — 

They danced, and stamped, and rocked, and 

trembled ; 
Some braced their nerves with smelling salts, 
And others sought relief in waltz, 
Or now with polka tramp and bound 
Advanced, retired, and twisted round. 
'Twas dreadful, very, 'pon my soul. 
To hear the cubic iv'ry roll ; 
And to this hour my grinders chatter 
Whene'er I think of Stoneybatter. 
Three were at length by fate selected — 

Three who should live for love and you. 
From all the sons of song elected, 

And I was of the happy few. 
J. De Jean was first, and by a 
Happy chance he won " Maria ; " 
Next '^Desmond" came, and fate to him 
Gave ^' Zero,^ fair in mind and limb ; 
And " Eva," such was love's decree 
(Yenus, I thank thee), fell to me. 
De Jean — why mask the soft confession )— 
Entered at once into poaaeaaiou. 



RICHARD d'aLTON WILLIAMS. 177 

Desmond with joy was aU on fire- 
He waved his sword and twanged his lyre ; 
And, such the hot blood of a hero, 
Swore he was all in flames at Zero. 

Fair maidens, by the tuneful nine, 

By Venus and Sfc. Valentine, 

Let us in some green valley meet you, 

And with a minstrel homage greet you. 

Come in robes of Nature's colour, 

Than all the rainbow beautifuller — 

Such robes as grace a rural queen, 

Of artless flow and emerald green. 

And fear not, loves, your mothers' censure — 

For once we'll have no "misadventure;" 

Yet, lest your absence wake a doubt, 

'Twere well to let them "know you're 

out"— 
And, lest some solemn, envious blockhead 

To slander our pure blisses dare, 
With ring and book within his pocket 

Our " Glericus " will meet us there, 
He'll meet us cap-a-pied ; but whether 

Beneath the heavens' o'erarching blue 
He joins or not our fates together, 

Entirely rests, dear girls^ with you. 
Oh ! tell to us, in loving letters. 
Are you prepared for Hym^Xi!^ i^\X»«t.^\ 



178 POEMS OF 

Are you of age, and passing fair. 

Without Vermillion, stays, or bustle, 
With azure eyes and golden hair, 

A silver laugh, elastic muscle — 
A generous heart — an artless grace- 
Heroic will for every duty — 
And mind resplendent in the face — 

The very life and soul of beauty 1 
And could you love an earnest man 

With all the woman's boundless fervour. 
Who, in the cause she worships, can 

To all things, save dishonour, nerve herl 
If this be so, with faith approach us-r- 

We'll meet you on the blue hill-side : 
Let grandeur roll to church in coaches — 

The green wood suits the poet's bride. 
In leafy bowers the first caresses 

To Adam faultless Eva gave, 
With roses crowned her golden .tresses, 

And smiling gazed in Eden's wave ; 
While he, entranced in speechless love. 

By cloudless day and balmy night, 
Beheld archangels round him move, 

And almost envy man's delight. 
Gome, when no jealous doubts destroy. 

No coldness kills affection's kiss, 
And only Freedom's nobler joy 

Shall win our fixfed souU from IKU. 



RICHARD D^ALTON WILLIAMS. 179 

Bat when her thunders roll around. 

Not yours the voice to bid us stay: 
Like us, you love the holy sound. 

And proudly cry — away, away! 
Hope for the widowed isle that gave 

To such true-hearted daughters birth I 
Tis woman makes the lord or slave, 

And crowns or blasts her native earth. 



ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE. 

I KNEW a maiden well 
Who fortunes used to tell, 
And pins and tapes to sell ; 

She was a Gipsy : 
Oft in the neighbouring town, 
At the " Blue Boar and Crown,*' 
Swipes she would swallow down 

Till she was tipsy. 

There, with a cousin male, 
Oft, o'er a racy tale. 
Quaffed she of beer and ale 

Many a jorum, ' 
Till the raw lobsters came, 
And bore the reeling dame 
To a Bashaw they name 

JoBtlce oi Q.tiQtxx'csL. 



180 POEMS OF 

Hoping to make the maid 
Sober, or else afraid, 
Solemnly Foozle said — 

" Wretch, do you know me V 
But, having slowly eyed 
Justice on every side, 
Coolly the maid replied, 

" If I do, blow me !*' 



Then did he utter much, 
Sounding like classic Dutch, 
Quoting from Coke and such 

Wise commentators ; 
But to the maiden's nose 
Archly her digits rose, 
And his wroth worship's toes 

Blazed in his gaiters. 



Then did the nettled judge 
Shout " To jail quickly trudge I '^ 
But, as she would not budge, 

They had to fetch her ; 
So from Sir Foozle's hall 
Did the raw lobsters all 
Beauty in anguish haul 

Oflf on a stretcYiev. 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 181 

Bat a youth met the band 
Who a peculiar brand 
Grasped in his soapless hand — 

He was a tinker ; 
Swiftly his wrath arose, 
Eight and left fell his blows, 
And on each legal nose 

Planted a clinker. 

With his hot iron then 
Floored he the lobster men, 
And to her home again 

Bore he the maiden. 
Still through life's lanes they pass, 
Having both " tin " and " brass," 
Goading a vicious ass 

Heavily laden. 



THE BARMAID'S EYES.* 

My eyes are goggled, my whiskers dyed, 
I am stooped, notwithstanding stays ; 

I would I were stretched that stream beside, 
Where I fished in my zigzag days ; 

— ^— 

* A parody on Mangan'a song, " The TimA oi t»K^ 
Barmecidea, 



182 POEMS OF 

For, back to that spot — (it costs nothing, you 
know) — 

My memory ever flies, 
Where I first saw glow, long, long ago, 

The light of the barmaid's eyes ! 
Where I first saw glow, long, long ago. 

The light of the barmaid's eyes. 

Then ''tin*' was mine, and a love of fun, 

And a sharp steel pen to war 
On despot, dandy, dunce, and dun, 

And humbugs wherever they are ; 
And donkeys vicious as any I know 

At Dundrum or Tramore that plies, 
Ere my cash ran low, long, long ago. 

When I basked in the barmaid's eyes I 
Ere my cash ran low, long, long ago, 

When I dreamed of the barmaid's eyes, 

One polished cranium graced my board, 

And divers pipes hung round ; 
And of smuggled ** weed " a secret horde 

Was always to be found ; 
For these were the days when we used "to blow 

A cloud" and cheat the Excise- 
When poteen could flow, long, long ago. 

To the praise of the barmaid's eyes — 
When poteen could flow, long^ long ago, 
In toasting the barmaid's eyea. 



RICHARD d'ALTON WILLIAMS. 18^ 

By Liffey and Dodder our spirits high 

Could raise at will " a lark ;" 
Mud Isle was ours, and Ireland's Eye, 

And eke the Phoenix Park. 
Oh i glittered that brilliant wit to and fro^ 

Which only snobs despise — 
I could joke, I know, long, long ago, 

In the light of the barmaid's eyes — 
I could joke, I know, long, long ago, 

In the light of the barmaid's eyes. 

I see " ould Ireland " once again, 

With its " victims " bought and sold ; 
And the twice five hundred spouting men 

Whose breeches were lined with gold. 
I call up many a precious " go," 

And sublimely monstrous lies, 
Hear, hears! and cheers, with sneers and 
jeers — 

But I cheered for the barmaid's eyes ; 
Tom Steele and Co., and the long, long bow, 

When I cheered for the barmaid's eyes. 

But mine eyes are goggled, my whiskers dyed, 

And I stoop in spite of stays ; 
May I soon go back to the Dodder's side, 

Wiere I fished in my z\g7»9^^ ft^i^X 



184 POEMS OF 

For to Donnybrook back on elastic toe 

My memory ever flies, 
And I rave of the time, long, long ago, 

When I worshipped the barmaid's eyes ; 
And I howl for the time, long, long ago, 

And the light of the barmaid's eyes. 



THE LEGEND OF STIFFENBACH. 

One day the Baron Stiffenbach among his fathers 

slept. 
And his relict o'er his ashes like a water goddess 

wept. 
Till her apparatus lachrymal required so many 

"goes" 
From certain flasks, that soon there shone a 

ruby on her nose. 

The Dowager of Stiffenbach was fair enough to 

view, 
And, having her dead husband's wealth, could 

touch the rhino too ; 
Bat yet, of all the neighb'ring nobs, not one 

would e'er propose. 
Because she wore a ruby, a large ruby on her 
nose. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILUAMS. 185 

At this the jewelled baroness was very mach 

annoyed, 
But rival baronesses her perplexity enjoyed, 
For the ruby was a by- word and a triumph to 

her foes, 
Who, spinster, wife, and widow, all exulted at 

her nose. 



The Baroness of Stiffenbach now called the 

doctors in, 
Aud freely gave for drugs and shrugs great 

quantities of " tin." 
At length they said 'twas surgeon's work, then 

gravely all arose. 
And left her, as they found her, with the ruby 

on her nose. 



Now came the surgeons. First they voted all 

the doctors fools, 
Then drew from curious armouries a multitude 

. of tools ; 
That they were armed to fight a bear a stranger 

would suppose, 
And not to dig a ruby froxcL ^'\^wQtk&%^^^^'^^* 



186 POEMS OF 

Bat now among the surgeons vital difference 

we find, 
For some proposed to cut before and some to 

cat behind ; 
And soon, in scalpelomachy, they well-nigh 

came to blows, 
For the baroness's ruby — the raby on her nose« 



At length came forward one, by lot elected from 

the rest. 
Bat, alas! the eager brotherhood too closely 

roand him pressed, 
For they stood upon the corns of the operator's 

toes. 
Who, leaping, with the ruby, also sliced away 

the nose. 



They stitched it on immediately, yet — why has 

not transpired — 
That very day the baroness capriciously ex- 
pired: 
Thus died that lovely lady, by a judgment, 
some suppose, 
For having led the baron, in hia lifetime, by 
the nose. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 187 

They made her grave three fathoms deep, by 

Shine's embattled tide, 
And bowed her gently downwards by her 

darling Stiffy's side ; 
Bat her restless spirit wanders still, and oft, at 

evening's close, 
She haunts the castle ramparts, with her finger 

on her nose. 



Grim reader! let us blubber o'er the melan- 
choly fate 

Of the quondam Baron Stiffy's non-teetotalising 
mate; 

And for the future solemnly, if possible, pro- 
pose 

To shun the weird elixirs that bring rubies on 
the nose 



DUNORE HILL. 

From city smoke, and cant, and cunning. 
Splendid guilt and pauper care. 

Fashion, fog, debauch, and dunning, 
I come to \>tea\\i^ ^^"^vSe^ar^ ^nx- 



188 POEMS OF 

In humbug clad, as in a bodice, 

The town is false, and stiff, and odd — 
Betty Martin is its goddess, 

Hookey Walker is its god. 
But from Dublin, vast and smoky, 

Fly to nature, if you will, "* 

For {why is only known to Hokey) 

Steam has left us Wlcklow still. 
Here you stUl may clasp you fingers 

Bound some real flowers and grass. 
For near Dunore still nature lingers 

As an artless country lass. 
Soon to meet with nature purely 

Shall be but as a bygone dream ; 
We speak and move by fire^and surely 

Men will soon make love by steam. 
Capid now must turn a stoker, 

Thrust his torch in engine fires. 
Make his fatal bow a poker, 

And his shafts electric wires. 
Iron ships will soon surround us. 

Like that giant with the screw — 
Nay, it will no way astound us 

When we see an iron crew. 
We are learned with a vengeance, 

Great our civilisation when 
Men each day grow moxe like engines — 
Engines daily Uker m«u. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 189 

Yet, methinks, a race will flourish 

Half locomotive and half man, 
And a metal mother nourish 

A sort of human pewter can. 
Already some have hearts of iron — 

Gold and silver they adore — 
Were it strange that steel environ — 

These already steel at core ) 
In those days, when pairs are wedded, 

They shall hire a job balloon. 
And in half an hour be bedded 

At some station in the moon. 
Would his feeble pen were graphic 

As the varied scene requires, 
To paint the interstellar traffic 

Which the poet's eye admires 
Crowds of youth are off to Venus — 

Bless me I all the girls to Mars, 
And millions float like motes between us 

And our allies in the stars. 
We'll screw our way sky-high, and from its 

Farthest orb have Dalkey rails, 
And, rushing past, see envious comets, 

Like beaten curs, hang down their tails ! 
'Tis an age of sense and iron, 

Poets now may eat their wares — 
From Homer, hang them all, to Byron — 

Give us stock au^ t«Sl^v] ^^^'^^ 



190 POEMS OF 

What are all thy hands, Briareus — 

What, Izion, is thy wheel 
To an engine's vast and varioas 

Limbs and orbs of living steel ? 
But from Donore I've rambled sadly — 

My Pegasus has run away 
(A proof I manage him but badly) : 

Yet, in excuse, I've this to say — 
Hungry reader, to be candid, 

Beyond the Scalp we had a lunch, 
And I imbibed, if ever man did, 

A liffey of the coldest punch. 
At that pic-nic, o'erpowered with laughter. 

Beside '^ the Golden Spears "* I fell ; 
But rising gradually, thereafter 

I wrote these precious lines pell-mell. 
I swear, so strike me paralytic. 

If I have mocked Horatian laws. 
Not pique to thee, dyspeptic critic. 

But punch — cold punch — has been the 
cause. 



* The Irish name of the mountaias vulgarly called 
the " Sugar Loaves." 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILUAUS. 191 

A DREAM. 



" Ad astera faimus, 
Erigitur."— 7*V. 

I HAD read an account in the Hwrkaru 

That Bramah's sons were getting up steam ; 
And my train of thought when I'd spelled it 
through 

Set off on a whimsical railway dream. 
When the Indians saw the engines come, 

Puffing the smoke of civilisation, 
Brahmin and Nabob, in wonder dumb, 

Worshipped the stokers in mute prostration ; 
And I saw strange shapes that from London 
came 

In that hapless land to hold their revels, 
And I knew by the vast and fearful flame 

That followed their steps these shapes were 
devils. 
Whish ! o'er the plains there flew in a trice 

Hypocrisy, tyranny, pride and passion, 
And lust ; and each was a titled vice. 

Aristocratic, and quite the fashion. 
Then smoke pervaded whate'er I saw — 

Degrees were taken by smoke at college, 
And I judged from Divinity, Physic, Law, 

That pipes and cigars were the springs of 
knowledge. 



192 POEMS OF 

(Let none suppose that the Muse profane 

Alludes to our own dear Dublin Trinity ; 
The ermine shall sooner suffer a stain 

Than that silent vestal's grim virginity.) 
And I saw that the march of civilisation 

Had taught the animals, tame and ravage, 
To ape the lords of (the crown's) creation, 

And by science or law to kill and ravage. 
Monkeys were smoking the best of cigars, 

Bustles appeared at each elephant's tail, 
Hyenas were plotting intestine wars, 

And asses indicting an Evening Mail. 
Tigers and serpents and crocodiles came 

To certain clap*trap Land Commissions^ 
To settle a point almost the same 

As at present perplexes our own patricians. 
They met to prove that property's right 

Much more than its duties in reason stretches ; 
That their own sweet selves were immaculate 
quite ; 

And the prey they slaughter ungrateful 
wretqhes. 
Then the Treshamite crocodiles wept and prayed 

That the gods would guard their tithes and 
Sion, 
Bat the tigers and serpents applied for aid 

To their blood-loving friend, the tyrant's 
lioD. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 193 



.«*•. J 



Bibles and ballets, and lawn and steel, 

Kind soul I he sends, and band and feather, 
Till red-hot balls and red-hot zeal 

Blaze o'er the blasted plains together ; 
And then charged, on steam horses, moustached 
baboons 

(The steam-horses steamed from their tails 
and noses), 
And they made very hairy and grim dragoons, 

Though the saddles, being hot, wern't seats 
of roses. 
And no earthly power of defence avails 

Against the charge of these iron brutes ; 
The very smoke from their rampant tails 

Bothered completely the Rajapoots. 
Again for home I set off by steam. 

But the boiler burst as we made the Liffey — 
I had dozed by the fire, and the kettle, 'twould 
seem. 

Fell over my shins, and 1 woke in a jiffey. 



^ 



194 POEMS OF 



REASON AND SONG. 

A CRYPTIC MYTH. 

To a green sunny isle of ocean 

From heaven had wandered young. Song; 
Of earth the fair child had no notion, 

Bat dreamed of his home all day long 
He sported where water-bells quiver — 

Sipped dew from the calix of flow'rs — 
And would gaze on the glass of a river 

And list to its murmur for hours. 
Through shadowy wood vistas twining, 

As Freedom her shady way won, 
On flow'rets she found him reclining, 

And hailed the young god as her son. 
And Hope took the innocent lisper 

To bask in her sunniest smile ; 
And oft would her magical whisper 

His infantine sorrows beguile. 
Calm Reason was placed to attend him ; 

His steps o'er the isle did she lead, 
And much sober counsel would lend him — 

But somehow they never agreed. 
One day she discovered him sleeping 

The purple lipped roses among. 
While jasmine and laurels were creeping 
Around the bright brow ol "joxnig SQ\i^« 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 195 

The shamroci: and heather-bell cumber 

The frame of his exquisite lyre, 
And there played o'er his features in slumber 

A halo of roseate fire. 
She knew, by the subtle flame streaming 

His flewer-pillowed temples along, 
That, alas ! to his woe, he was dreaming. 

So quickly she wakened up Song. 
His anger the child could not smother, 

The tears all his white winglet stain ; 
He flutters, post-haste, to his mother, 

Yet scarce with the pout can complain. 
His sobs swell the musical breeze on, 

The tears in his blue eye still gleam — 
^' Ah ! do, mamma, send away Eeason, 

She frowns so, and won't let me dream. 
Not often in dreams I revisit 

The asphodel meads of my birth, 
Then, oh ! mamma, tell me why is it 

She always must wake me to earth 1 
My harp with pale violets dressing, 

I played to the swift-footed hours ; 
And then to my lips the wreath pressing, 

To slumber I sank on the flow'rs. 
My sisters, the Muses, were singing 

Like warbling springs of the spheres, 
And the bells of the fLoVi^\.^ ^«t^ tvs^'^^ 

A iullaby chime ou 1x17 ^^x^* 



196 POEMS OF 

The clustering mimosas en wreathed 

The margin of whispering floods, 
And gales full of harmony breathed, 

like love, through the emerald woods. 
And there, mamma, bright birds were flying, 

On prettier wings than my own, 
And many-hued melodists vieing, 

In spice groves that waved to their tone. 
But while thus in enchanted dominions 

I wandered, in Fancy's spell bound, 
I awoke with a shock through my pinions — 

'Twas Reason stood o'er me and frowned. 
And now 'tis the soft Summer season : 

I hate her — and safe the path seems. 
Then do, mamma, send away Eeason, 

She frowns so, and spoils all my dreams." 
But, finding her charge so untoward, 

Her sails to the wind Eeason spread, 
Shed a tear o'er his fate — for, though fro ward, 

She loved him — then, sighing, she fled. 
Alas ! silly boy, thus to flout her — 

He laughed as through wild ocean's din 
She steered : but perceived soon without her 

High Heaven he never could win. 
And nightly, with fruitless emotion. 

He weeps to the sea's solemn tones, 
While the stars, from the chambers of ocean. 
Ascend their roriferouB ttnonea. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 197 

I have seen him a vapour pursuing 

In tears o'er the shadowy lawn, 
Till it rose in a glory, bedewing 

The luminous crown of the dawn, 
Or mantles, o'erflowing her chalice, 

By Eurus and Zepliyrus kissed, 
While she floats from her ivory palace, 

Half veiled in a crystallized mist. 
The dreamer will watch the clouds sailing 

The floor of his birthplace beneath ; 
And oft an, alas ! unavailing 

Lament to the destinies breathe. 
But though fate his pure home yet refuse him, 

At times he hath flashes of mirth. 
For bright trifles have power to amuse him, 

Despised by the wisdom of earth. 
For hours will he breathlessly follow 

The hues o'er the landscape that run, 
When the iris-rimmed shield of Apollo 

Is cast on the clouds from the sun. 
In all good he sees God, and adoreth, 

And heavenwards lifteth his wings. 
And singeth the while that he soareth. 

And soareth the more that he sings.* 



* "Singioff still dost soar, aad «od.Tm% c^«c w^sj^RiO 



198 POEMS OF 

Still far from the heavenly portals, 
The cold earth he wanders along ; 

And the noise has gone forth among mortals^ 
That Eeason departed from Song. 



OH! FOR A FEED.* 



Oh ! for a feed ! a motley feed I a corporation 

feast 
Of hot and cold, of roast and boiled, of fishes, 
bird, and beast ; 

From cod and snipe 
To leathery tripe. 
Two inches thick at least. 

Oh ! for a feed ! an awful feed ! or else a 

mighty lunch, 
With Niagara cataracts of Irish whiskey punch, 

Port crusty, red. 
And crackling bread. 
Ad libitum to crunch. 

Oh ! for a feed ! a pious feed ! with reverend 

lords to dine, 
On venison pies of depth profound, and frozen 

Spanish wine ; 



* A parody on Davis's Song, " Oh \ lot a ^Va^V' 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 199 

With turtle soups, 
And whiskered troops 
Of " natives," * in their brine. 

Oh I for a feed I a bribing feed, at an election 

spread, 
Where much is said that's never done, and 
done that's never said, 

And biped swine 
To ^* nine times nine " 
Invert their heels and head. 

Oh 1 for a feed ! precarious feed, at boating or 

pic-nic. 

Where "nobody gets nothink," and everybody's 

sick; 

And sudden squalls 

Seize hats and shawls, 

Just borrowed, or on tick. 

Oh! for a feed! by hook or crook, from any 

good soul at all, 

In rural cot, or pleasure yacht, or festive civic 

hall, 

Or in poteen still. 

On a Munster hill. 

To stagger, and then to fall. 



Irish oysters. 



200 POBMS OF 



LEANDER; 

Night hangs o'er the towers of Sestos ; 

Tempests lash the foaming main ; 
Madly bounds the Hellesponton, 

By the Tread's sacred plain. 
Southward rolls divine Scamander, 

All his virgin-loving waves — 
North, the marble-browed Propontis, 

Struggling in his prison, raves. 
Though the lightning smite Abydos, 

Till her turrets rock and ring, 
While Jove's thunders roar from Ida, 

Bearing death on fiery wing, 
Boldly swims the young Leander 

Towards the lovely Hero's bower, 
By the flame that o'er the billow 

Streams from Sestos' temple tower. 
Never Cupid's rosy bondage 

Linked more faithful hearts than these. 
Whom nor gold nor threat can sunder, 

Nor the rage of stormy seas. 
Blame her not, the youthful priestess. 

Nursed al) Cytherea's shrine, 
Who, adoring, hailed fait Venus, 
'Mid OJjmpus most divme. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 201 

Wildly now broad Hellesponton 

Foam aloft to aether flings^ 
And blue blazes over Ilium 

Clap their quick sulphurous wings, 
" Woe is me ! beloved Leander, 

Death and tempest round thee rave, 
Lightnings wrap and furies toss thee— 

Venus shield thee o'er the wave!" 
What some one calls a " thunderous smother " 

Squelched the welkin left and right — 
Ah ! Leander, can your mother 

Know you're out this shocking night 1 
Fearfully the sea was tumbling, 

Like a tipsy gent, about ; 
Thunders rumbling, Neptune grumbling, 

Getting up the fatal spout. 
Shall we deem fair Venus cruel 1 

Heard she not her priestess' vow 1 
Yes — but then the goddess knew well 

Juno kicked up all the row. 
Thus it chanced, though very few know — 

The Paphian queen demurely goes 
To blarney Jove, when jealous Juno 

Planted clinkers on her nose. 
Stunning plumpers th' ox-eyed goddess. 

Eight and left, pitched in amain, 
Tore the cestus, rent her bodice^ 

WbUe poor Yenna vrei^t Va. Nwai* 



202 POEMS OF 

Till Eros and Anteros fled post- 

Haste along the rails of stars, 
And in the twinkling of a bedpost 

Brought up blaspheming bully Mars. 
Bat before this dust had ended, 

Jupiter's celestial toe, 
Thundering, on the rear descended, 

And laid the vixen victress low. 
All the gods who love (esthetics 

Were greatly shocked at this, of course, 
And ^sculapius and emetics 

Were found the Olympians' sole resource. 
What followed on this double damper, 

The pious Muse discreetly shrouds, 
But all the gods were seen bo scamper 

Rather fast behind the clouds. 
Meanwhile Leander, like a porpoise, 

Rolled amid the billows' roar, 
Till Poseidon pitched his corpus 

On the cockle-peopled shore, 
Where the tide had written wrinkles 

On the forehead of the strand ; 
There he, 'mid the periwinkles, 

Kicked the bucket on the sand. 
There he lay, the precious noddy. 

Like a suffocated pup, 
TjJJ the crowner gave his body 
To A Trojan sackemup. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 203 

First, the surgeons gravely flayed him — 

Then the students laid him on 
A dissecting trap, and made him 

A " demnition " skeleton. 
Temnon put the heart in honey 

{Mem, — he thought the muscles tough) — 
Asked had Hero any money — 

Damned Leander for a muff. 
Now this Temnon had his lodging 

With Anchises (two-pair back), 
And remained in Ilium dodging, 

Till the famous Grecian sack. 
And when ^neas cut his lucky, 

'Mid the Troy horse-breakers' groans, 
In his old portmanteau stuck he 

These, " the rale original bones ; ' 
Which to me by right descended — 

For I can say, perhaps like you, 
My race of bards and chiefs was blended 

With some rascals, erdre nous. 
If you doubt this sketch veracious, 

Or wish to hear the tale in full, 
Tve popped Leander — goodness gracious! — 

Take him out and ask his skull. 



204 FOEHS OF 



"NEVER SAY DIE." 



[The following ingenious and amusing composition 
appeared in the column given to "answers to corre- 
spondents " in the Nation of March 7, 1846, preceded 
by a statement that in the hurry of publication-day, 
when letters were pouring in like hail, the editor 
handed one to "Shamrock," begging him to be grave 
for once and answer it seriously. The letter was from 
a resident of Stoneybatter, who complained that his 
lady-love, an elderly maiden, had jilted him for a 
oolour-sergeant, thereby causing him such depression 
of spirits as might induce him to do some desperate 
deed. " Shamrock " soon afterwards quitted his desk, 
"leaving," says the Nation, "this atrocity behind 
him":—] 

Why Buch a row? What ails you now, de- 
sponding Stoneybatter man ? 

You'll jump from off a bridge, indeed ! God 
bless us, what's the matter, man ? 

If she disdain your amorous pain, for military 
Pat, her man. 

Because he's very tall and slim, and you're a 
shorter, fatter man, 

Speak out the truth, and tell the youth you're 
quite resolved to shatter, man, 

To smithereens all rivals, whether parrot, poodle, 

cat, or man — 
For love makes all things bellicose — or monkey, 
dandy, rat, or man, 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 205 

So thrash the sergeant, if you can, then boldly 
up and at her, man. 

If you surmise you'll win by sighs, we never 
met a flatter man — 

In fact, by dad, you're raving mad, as ever was 
a hatter, man. 

Then try a little romping, tilllher cap and wig 
you tatter, man, 

And laud her pa, and praise her ma, especially 
the latter, man. 

Soft-sawderize her shape and size, and every 
feature flatter, man, 

And oft you'll be asked in to tea, and soft, 
familiar chatter, man. 

The barking curs, his jingling spurs, and ratt- 
ling sabre's clatter, man. 

Shall sound in vain, tho'^sleet and rain upon his 
shako patter, man, 

While you within enjoy the din, before a smok- 
ing platter, man — 

That's better tried than suicide, so, courage! 
Stoneybatter man. 



206 POEMS OF 



WINTER— AN ELEGY. 



** Most musical, most melancholy. 



The lovely rose, the garden's graceful queen ; 

The shining berries of the mountain ash, 
And all the glories of the sylvan scene, 

Have gone, I guess, teetotally to smash 

The shuddering hills, en wrapt in lurid fire. 
With flaming tongues the lambent lightning 
licks; 
Whilst all the songsters of the rural choir 
To New South Wales have cut their precious 
sticks. 

From sable clouds that veil the dreary skies, 
The rushing demons of the tempest shout ; 

And Ruin grim to reeking Havoc cries — 
" Does your mamma, my tulip, know you're 
out?" 

From pole to pole the rumbling thunder runs 
Tearing, with horrid voice, the tortur'd sky ; 
And, hark I red Havoc's awful answer comes, 
Bending the rock, " Old spitfee, axe^ ta^ e^^?' 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 207 

Aloft, among the rent and flutt'ring shrouds, 
While his barque battles with strong ocean's 
might, 
The sailor, gazing on the sable clouds, 

Prays to the raging Boreas — "Blow me 
tight!" 

Now the ship, madden'd with th' unequal strife, 
Stagg'ringly, plunges heavily about ; 

The crew, resigning ev*ry hope of life, 

Cry, " One wave more, and we'll be up the 
spout." 

Alas ! behold the angry wintry blast 

Strikes the tall monarch of the forest fiat ; 

Thus youth's aspiring hopes to earth are cast, 
And poets' dreams are — all around my hat ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



O 



POEMS OF RICHABD B'aLTON WILLIAMS. 211 



THE POETS PASSION. 

I LOVE thee ! oh ! how weak a scroll 

Is soDg the most divine, 
To paint the strength of Love's control, 
The pangs that rend the battling soul 
That vainly strives to stem the roll 

Of passion's wave, like mine ! 

Each day — my ev'ry combat vain — 

I love thee more and more ; 
The secret fire, with blissful pain. 
Flashes and glows through heart and brain, 
More fierce than that the minstrels feign 
From Heav'n Prometheus bore. 

I love thee far before them all 

Of Beauty's train that be : 
Thy smile and step, in bower and hall — 
The lightest words that from thee fall — 
Thy very shadow on the wall 

Is something deat V.o xo.^* 



212 POEICS OF 

In dream, I kiss thee o*er and o'er — 

Alas ! in dreams alone — 
Last night I thought we sat before 
A wood-embosomed cottage door, 
That view'd a garden's starry floor, 
And thou didst seem mine own. 

For language far too deeply blest, 
Our souls conversed in sighs ; 
And thou didst tremble when I press'd 
My cheek upon thy glowing breast 
And sunk in that Elysian rest 

That seals Love's languid eyes. 

As when the bee from roses sips 
The fairies' fragrant wine — 
As the fierce sun in ocean dips 
When Thetis' arms his fires eclipse, 
To thee I flew with thirsting lips 
That wildly quaflf d from thine. 

My lips no heedless kiss could steal 

From thine ; then careless sever — 
Ah, no I thy rosy mouth should feel 
The fervid stamp of passion's seal, 
While, as to magnets clings the steel, 
I clung to thee for ever. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 218 

And yet my only speech is sighs, 

To ^peak my love to thee ; 
In vain my tongue to woo thee tries, 
Nor dare I gaze into thine eyes, 
Altho' the blue and starry skies 

Are less divine to me. 

Unawed I join, when thou'rt away, 
The laugh without control ; 

But when thou*rt near I am not gay — 

No beams of mirth around me play — 

A deeper joy — a holier ray 

Pervades my conscious soul. 

I feel, though round bright spirits be, 

Thy presence like a cloud ; 
Thenceforth I am no longer free — 
My heart in secret kneels to thee, 
And hails the present deity^ 

In silent worship bow'd. 

Oh ! when, in some green bower apart, 

Shall I, without disguise, 
In faltering tones, yet void of art. 
And tears, despite the will, that start. 
Lay bare thy lover's bleedin.^ b^axt 

Before ihy gvxV\\>7 ^';}^^\ 



214 POEAIS OF 

(Jhf. Christ ! — the matchless joy and pride 

To call thee by my name ! — 
To clasp thee fondly to my side, 
A dearly-loved and happy bride, 
Till down the vale of tears we glide, 
And Heaven's high mandate came. 

At last our earthly robes to fling 

Upon the flow'ry sod ; 
And heart to heart, on viewless wing. 
Away I — away ! — commingled spring. 
For evermore to love and sing 

Fast by the throne of God ! 

Yet, if His eye foresee my hand 

Should e'er thy sorrow prove, 
May His unsparing angel stand 
Between us, with the flaming brand 
That flash'd 'twixt Adam and the land 
Where man first bowed to Love. 

Oh, sooner than one cloud of care, 

Thou joy-predestined child, 

m-c- Should darken o'er thy dawning fair, 

'■ -; Condemn me, Heaven, in lone despair, 

BrancblesBf blasted, cold, and baxe. 

To wither on the wild — 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 215 

Where round me love's young fruits and 
flowers 

Shall ne'er be seen to wave, 
But dismally the drear}' hours 
Shall wane, afar from Beauty's bowers, 
And when I fall, no pitying showers 

Bedew my sterile grave ! 



DAY DKEAMS. 



KiNa of the sacred midnight skies! beneath 

whose footsteps roll 
The solemn starry harmonies that fill the poet's 

soul, 
Look down, in pity, on Thy child by passion's 

billows toss'd, 
And be Thyself the pilot ere the fragile bark be 

lost. 
Overmastered by the power I love, song chains 

me to the car, 
And vainly 'gainst a host of dreams I wage a 

feeble war. 
For love and glory weave their spells before my 

dazzled eyes. 
And clog my spiritfa "woxnA^^m^'^^^^^^ja. 

would seek the atdoa. 



216 POBMS OF 

I dream of war in Freedom's cause, I grasp the 

fancied spear, 
And o'er my country's marshall'd ranks her 

ancient banner rear ; 
In visionary panoply I smite the foreign foe, 
And spur my barb through broken ranks where 

battle-torrents flow. 
Again, within the midnight watch, I turn my 

soul from wars. 
And think of home while gazing on the gentle 

queen of stars ; 
Or, while my comrades wearily around in slum- 
ber lie, 
I kneel adoring on the sod where I next morn 

may die ; 

For who more oft should think of thee thad 

they whose lot is cast 
Where death, exulting, rides supreme the fiery 

battle-blast t 
Anon soft gales, from balmy isles, that melt like 

Venus' sighs, 
Flow o'er mine ear, and at my feet love languish- 

ingly lies. 
I dream of woman's steadfast faith, unchanged 

bj grief or years, 
Uaabnokingf trusting, loving ^tVQ. \>Yao\x^li bit- 
temeaa and tears, 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 217 

And now upon the armed barque, the freshening 

breezes blow, 
All sail is set — Bow proud she is ! with her I 

pine to go, 



Where'er upon the glorious deep her stately 

step may be. 
Majestic and triumphantly along the subject 

sea. 
And when lern^ wills it from forth her heaving 

side, 
To hurl young Freedom's thunderbolts across 

the affrighted tide ; 
And 'neath a green flag sailing, to roam the 

ocean free, 
With Irish hearts, in Irish barques, upon the 

Irish sea. 
And then, at night, in pensive mood, to watch 

the golden stars, 
Depict upon the slumberiug tide the shadow of 

her spars ; 



Or hear upon the darkened deep, the tempest 

fiend rejoice, 
While billows leap, like ^tAxVil^^^^ARAs^VcLXk^^LX^^ 

at his voice; -..^ 



218 POEMS OF 

And mournfully, raost mournfully, dread Ocean ! 

at thy roar, 
As if thy moan could wake the dead, uprise the 

dreams of yore. 
For mem'ry then recalls the joys that never 

more may b'*, 
And *' plaintive sounds of long ago," swell sadly 

from the sea. 
If it be mine dear Eir^*s harp to strike with 

mailed hand. 
And wake the martial melodies that fire an 

arming land, 



Oh ! never shall Thy glorious gift perverted be 
to wrong, 

Nor prostitute to tyranny the loveliness of song. 

Ah, no ! mo voumeen, gra fnachreCy mo colleen dhas 
asthore.* 

For Thee alone this harp shall sigh, hope, 
triumph, or deplore ; 

And though, perhaps, to other climes, I wander 
far away, 

Yet still of home shall fondly breathe the retro- 
spective lay ; 



* The dearest love of my heart you wco,— m-j ftjKc\vDk% 



I 



RICHARD D*ALTON WILUAMS. 219 

And| while the sun o'er Italy his evening kiss 

prolongs, 
The lonely Irish boy shall sing his melancholy 

songs. 



'Tis Thine alone to grant me peace, to bid the 

wave be still, 
And bend unto its destiny my fluctuating will, 
Though many a folly's meteor fire has led me 

oft astray, 
I still to Thee am journeying, but faint upon 

the way ; 
Send down Thy peaceful messenger to calm my 

troubled breast. 
And grant, within some tranquil vale, my weary 

spirit rest. 
Oh, set at length, from earthly charms, my 

wounded bosom free — 
And, spite of love and glory's spells, attract my 

soul to Thee ; 



For Thine the glory, Thine the love, that fadeth 

not away. 
But brighter grows etetii«i\^^m\Xi^^^xiKt'^'i»A- 

ing ray. 



220 POEMS OF 

No tears defile Thy sanctuary — no chains sup- 
port Thy throne ; 

On boundless Love — ^for Thou art Love — its 
pillars rest alone : 

False tyrants there shall crush no more the 
humble and the just — 

Nor mercy, truth, and liberty, be trampled in 
the dust. 

My soul is very weary here, so far from Thee to 
roam — 

Oh ! take me to Thy mercy soon — Thy bosom 
is my home I 



THE DYING GIRL. 

From a Munster vale they brought her. 
From the pure and balmy air, 

An Ormond peasant's daughter, 
With blue eyes and golden hair — 

They brought her to the city, 
And she faded slowly there, 

CoDsamption has no pity 
For blue eyes and golden \i«Ax. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 221 

When I saw her first reclining, 

Her lips were moved in pray'r, ' 
And the setting sun was shining 

On her loosened golden hair. 
When our kindly glances met her. 

Deadly brilliant was her eye, 
And she said that she was better, 

While we knew that she must die. 



She speaks of Munster valleys, 

The pattern, dance, and fair. 
And her thin hand feebly dallies 

With her scattered golden hair. 
When silently we listened 

To her breath with quiet care, 
Her eyes with wonder glistened, 

And she asked us what was there. 



The poor thing smiled to ask it. 

And her pretty mouth laid bare, 
Like gems within a casket, 

A string of pearlets rare. 
We said that we were trying, 

By the gushing of her blood. 
And the time she took in sigjhia^ 

To know if a\ie xvet^ %<:i^^* 



222 POEMS OF 

Well, she smiled and chatted gaily ; 

Though we saw in mute despair 
The hectic brighter daily, 

And the death-dew on her hair. 
And oft her wasted fingers 

Beating time upon the bed, 
O'er some old tune she lingers, 

And she bows her golden head. 

At length the harp is broken, 

And the spirit in its strings, 
As the last decree is spoken. 

To its source exulting springs. 
Descending swiftly from the skies, 

Her guardian angel came, 
iB[e struck God's lightning from her eyes 

And bore Him back the flame. 

Before the sun had risen 

Through the lark-loved morning air, 
Her young soul left its prison, 

Undefiled by sin or care. 
I stood beside the couch in tears, 

Where pale and calm she slept, 
And, though I've gazed on death for years, 

I blush not that I wept. 
I checked with effort pity's sighs, 

Apd leit the matron there, 

- t^doae the curtains oi liei e^^^. 

And bind her golden Yiaix* 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 223 



TO FANNY POWER. 

Sweet little girl I I love you sincerely, 

And I know that you see I am fond of you 

clearly ; 
Alas! wildest words are but faint shadows 

merely 
To tell you how long t have loved and how 

dearly ; 
My love, with thy loveliness, brightening yearly, 
Sweet little girl I I love you sincerely. 

How I first was bewitched, I believe there's no 

knowing ; 
Many spells were combined for my heart's over- 
throwing : 
Bright eyes, through which still brighter spirit 

was glowing- 
Sweet laughter in mirthfulness artlessly flowing, 
Like zephyrs at play through a fairy flute 

blowing, 
And a hundred love-spells that Tm sure there's 
ho knowing. 

Since the first happy hour long ago that I 

knew you, 
Jd absence, my heart, o^iIigLXi^iw.^VdSkl^^^'^^ 



POEMS OF 

With plumes from young Cupid's own rosy wing 

drew you, 
Beside you I panted yet trembled to woo you, 
And my hopes, and my fears, and my blessings 

pursue you, 
Since the first happy hour long ago that I knew 

you. 

Forgive the rash words of too earnest a lover! 
Ah! love, like her sister, should many sins 
cover ; 

Not always the wing of the wild mountain 

plover 
Afar from the earth in mid-heaven can hover ; 
But, oh I did some magic all bosoms discover, 
I dare show even you the true soul of your 

lover. 

Ever ril worship you proudly and truly. 
Sprinkling your path with heart-blossoming 

duly, 
Till your smile peace and joy in my bosom 

wake newly — 
Peace and joy, like the Summer sea, slumbering 

coolly. 
Reflecting but Heav'n, overarching it bluely ! 
And TU Jove you and worship you fondly and 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 225 

Fairest and dearest ! I love you sincerely, 
And sure you must see I am fond of you clearly : 
Language divinest could ne'er express nearly 
How deeply I love you — how well and how 

dearly. 
My love, like thy loveliness, brightening yearly — 
Sweet little girl ! I love you sincerely. 



TO KATHLEEN. 

My Kathleen dearest ! in truth or seeming, 
No brighter vision e'er blessed my eyes 

Than she for whom in Elysian dreaming 
Thy tranced lover too fondly sighs. 

Kathleen fairest ! if elfin splendour 
Hath ever broken my heart's repose, 

'Twas in the darkness, ere, purely tender. 
Thy smile, like moonlight o'er ocean, rose. 

Since first I met thee thou knowest thine are 
This passion-music, each pulse's thrill — 

The flowers seem brighter, the stars diviner, 
And God and nature more glorious still. 

1 see around me new fountains gushing — 

More jewels spangle the robes of night ; 
Strange harps are pealing — fresh roses blush- 
ing- 
Young worlds emeig\t\g^\\i^\a«t\\^5aN>* 



226 POEMS OF 

No more thy song-bird in clouds shall hover ; 

Oh 1 give him shelter upon thy breast, 
And bid him swiftly — his long flight over — 

From Heaven drop into that love-built nest. 
Like fairy flow'rets is love, thou fearest, 

At once that springeth like mine from 
earth; 
'Tis friendship's ivy grows slowly, dearest, 

But love and lightning have instant birth. 

Thy mirthful fancy and artless gesture, 

Hair black as tempest, and swanlike breast, 
More graceful folded in simplest vesture 

Than proudest bosoms in diamonds drest. 
Not these, the varied and rare possession 

Love gave to conquer, are thine alone ; 
But, oh ! there crowns thee divine expression, 

As saints a halo, that's all thine own. 

Thou art as poets in olden story 

Have pictured woman before the fall — 

Her angel beauty's divinest glory — 

The pure soul shining, like God, through all. 

But vainly, humblest of leaflets springing, 
I sing the queenliest flower of love : 

Thus soars the skylark, presumptuous singing 
The orient morning enftitoii^dL ^Joon^, 



KICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 227 

Yet hear, propitious, beloved maiden, 

The minstrel's passion is pure as strong, 
Through nature fated, his heart, love-laden 

Must break, or utter its woes in song. 
Farewell ! if never my soul may cherish 

The dreams that bade me to love aspire, 
By memory's altar I thou shalt not perish, 

First Irish pearl of my Irish lyre ! 



TO JESSY. 



Dearest 1 since we parted, sighs 
Amid my gayest moments rise, 
And the summer in thine eyes 

Haunts me night and day, Jessy. 

Still I see thy tresses flow 
O'er thy bosom's globes of snow. 
And thy lips before me glow, 

Wheresoe'er I stray, Jessy. 

As the moon's imperial beam 
Rules the ocean's heaving stream, 
Love pervades my every dream, 

And mocks me with thy smiles, 
Jessy. 



228 POEMS OF 

Woe that e'er in heedless hour, 
Triumphant Love I I mocked thy pow'r ; 
Too late I've learned, within thy bow'r, 
To fear his fatal wiles, Jessy. 

And must I wear a hopeless chain, 
And force my heart, with ceaseless pain, 
To throb and bum and bleed in vain, 

And ne'er to think of thee, Jessy 1 

Alas I I feel it tenfold glow- 



Its pulses rise in Springtide flow — 
It bursts away with one wild throe. 

And flies thy slave to be, Jessy. 

Oh I would thine eyes speak hope to me, 
'Fore heaven I vow, on bended knee, 
With faithful heart to cherish thee 

Through life's tempestuous blast, Jessy, 

And while the waves around us roar, 
Their rage shall but excite us more, 
Until on death's mysterious shore 

We furl our sails at last, Jessy. 

Presumptuous Love I and can I dare 
So high, as hope with heaven to share 
A heart so rich, a form so fair, 

A soul so rich as l\vm©, S^a^^^ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 229 

I dare — nor deem my daring shame ; 
And who so cold as seek to blame 
The wax for melting in the flame — 

My heart in thy dear love, Jessy. 

My harp shall gain a sweeter string, 
And learn, at length, of love to sing ; 
I'll plume my spirit's folded wing 

And fly with thee above, Jessy. 

I bear no monsters on my shield ; 

'Tis blank, save where, on verdant field, 

The harp, in Irish yew concealed, 

Shows sorrow linked with song, Jessy. 

But, nobler far, a soul of flame 
To Heaven that soars — from Heaven that came — 
A generous heart — a guiltless fame — 
To poets still belong, Jessy. . 

And if I am indeed a bard, 
Immortal song uncrowned, unstarred — 
Though pride, and gold, and rivals guard — 
Will win thee, spite of fate, Jessy. 

If not — but ere thou judgest, dear, 
As false they sing who sing in fear, 
Oh I whisper hope, and thou ahalt K^^'c 
The lark at Heavetf » ^aX^^^^'si* 



230 POEMS OF 

Yet vain e'en music to express 

Love's hopes and fears and sweet distress ; 

I cannot love thee more nor less, 

I cannot fight nor fly, Jessy. 

May Heaven, if mine thou canst not be, 
From life and love the mourner free, 
And grant who may not live for thee, 
At least for thee to die, Jessy. 



A DKEAM OF THE STAES. 

TO JESSY. 

Away wilt thou wander, in spirit, to see 
The happy isles yonder, belovdd, with me, 
On Fancy's wing sweeping along through the 

night — 
Leave weary earth sleeping, and plume thee 

for flight, 
With coursers of lightning and chariot of cloud, 
Through stars round us bright'niag, a number- 
less crowd. 
The universe from its heart-centre we view, 
Where planets, and cornels, aad cKvxis flitter 
throv^h : 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 231 

Thine eyes feast on wonders, on music thine 

ears, 
And the brightness and thunders of candescent 

spheres. 
Away I let us mingle with whirlwind and fire. 
Each bright system single to grasp and admire ; 
Through rich constellations of corruscant gold, 
Where enthroned dominations their high king- 
doms hold — 
Where the elders all hoary are seated on high, 
And martyrdom's glory empurples the sky, — 
Behold of Eaphael the archangelic throne. 
And the sword of Michael flash down from his 

£onel 
Constellations more thickly and systems roll 

past — 
New spheres whirl quickly and galaxies blast. 
Oh ! from earth disentangled to hurry our flight, 
Where aether is spangled with infinite light — 
Where the sceptre of Eos and measureless day 
Chase darkness through chaos for ever away ; 
And each bright orb that seemeth the farthest 

and last 
To a point round which beameth creation more 

vast; 
For e'en cherubim pinions ne'er shadowed a 

spot 
Where tlij peopled domimon&|3^'^N^\ «t^\^^^»< 



232 POEMS OF 

I joy in Thy splendour, great Parent above, 
And adoringly render Thee worship and love ; 
Thy stars be my teachers, that sing from on 

high, 
All teeming with creatures immortal as I. 
Ah 1 who can sincerely imagine the skies 
Thus glorified merely to dazzle our eyes ? 
No flower ever budded for nought on the plain, 
And shall heaven be studded with nations in 

vain 1 
Did the Universe-Builder erect such a throne 
Of flame to bewilder poor mortals alone ] 
'Tis no pageant procession of riderless cars, 
But eternal progression of souls and of stars ! 
I believe every splendour that gladdens the sky 
Hath bosoms as tender as e'er heaved a sigh ; 
Perhaps their souls know not our burthens of 

woe — 
Perchance their tears flow not like mortals' 

below — 
And, by sin unembittered, the dwellings of air 
Since creation have glittered in loveliness there ; 
And their maidens inherit a beauty divine 
Of person and spirit, dear Jessy, like thine. 
No tyranny crushes their emerald plains — 
No patriot blushes, disarmed and in chains. 
With purest caresses and infantine smiles 
Undying love blesses those ioTV.\xTi«t\,ft V^^^\ 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 233 

And thus our God made them all sinless and 

bright, 
In blessings arrayed them, and crowned them 

with light. 
Oh! for power, dearest maiden, through 

heaven to go — 
My throbbing brow laid on your bosom of 

snow — 
Thy cheek, from caresses of mine, passion-pale, 
And thy undulant tresses afloat on the gale, 
Till the souls round us roaming shall deem on 

the air 
Berenice were combing her star-woven hair. 
No shadowless dreaming, beloved, is this — 
Our future is beaming with starrier bliss. 
If man, through His merit who died on a tree, 
Shall hereafter inherit earth, heaven, and sea — 
From Zephyr and Eurus, away to the Pole, 
Where the wheels of Arcturus eternally roll — 
Where the thrones of the Godhead are por- 
tioned above, 
To me be allotted, dear Jessy, thy love ; 
And for thee I will render up kingdom and 

crown, 
And the half-divine splendour of angels lay 

down; 
For on earth or in heaven, oh I what were a throne^ 
Unless it were given to caW \*\v^^ tcl-^ wr\^\ 



234 POEMS OF 

Oh I blest be thy bridal, and soon may it be 1 
But the stars, my soul's idol, a truer shall see. 
Where space cannot sever — where death cannot 

part — 
But ril clasp thee for ever, embraced to my 

heart, 
And kiss thee, and cherish, and love and adore, 
Till eternity perish — ^what can I do more 1 



TRUST NOT. 



Air—** Love Not." 



Woe's me! cold world, thou art not what I 
dreamed ! 
Hourly my cloud-built palaces decay. 

And ev'ry idol that divine I deemed 

Like fairy gold, deceitful turns to clay — 
Like Mry gold, deceitful turns to clay. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 235 

Ah ! once I trusted love's eternal truth, 

And thought that friendship would out- 
last the tomb ; 
Fool ! to believe, in ever-dreaming youth, 

This earth a clime where Eden's flowers 

could bloom — 
This earth a clime where Eden's flowers 

could bloom. 

Trust not ! trust not ! 

Wisdom ! thy gifts are bitter — now I know 

Friendship and love are but the poet's 

dream, 

Hope a chimera, and young freedom's glow 

In this chained world, alas ! may vainly 

beam — 

In this chained world, alas! may vainly 

beam. 

Trust not 1 trust not I 

Euthusiast hearts 1 trust not earth's fleeting 

flowers, 

Though sweet their perfume or though 

rich their hue; 

Love, hope and glory, song's enchanted towers. 

Though bright as lightning, are as transient 

too — 
Though bright as lightning, are as transient 
too. 



236 POEMS OF 

Vainly henceforth shall passion's billows roll 
Around this heart, Fate's smile or frown 
above. 
Grant me, kind heaven, a pure unruffled soul, 
Free and for ever from human hope and 

love — 
Free and for ever from human hope and love. 

Trust not ! trust not ! 



TO MAEY.* 



[The Nation introduced this fine poem with the 

following : — " * Shamrock ' has addressed * Mary ' in 

I a voice of inch tender warning against martial verse, 

I as makes ns fear a Telemachus masquerading as a 

Mentor. He describes himself as commissioned * by 

; Brida, the Irish Goddess of Poetry,* to utter this 

admonition . The Goddess descends to him in a vision, 

describes * Mary ' as her chosen oracle, on whom she had 

conferred the divine gift of poeay,and proceeds to say:"] 

"Since that hour the girl no longer played 

with childhood's simple toys, 
But each day, with impulse stronger, sought 

for high and holy joys ; 
But thou knowest the woe that slumbers music's 

shining waves beneath, 
And how oft the poet's numbers from a bleeding 

bosom breathe. 

*Mi8a Ellen Mary Downing, one oi \\iemci«»\,Ttfitible 
of the Nation poetesses. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 237 

Sing her then a lay of warning — for thou hast 

not passed unscathed — 
Lest her young and joyous morning all too soon 

in tears be bathed. 
Angels watch untiring o'er her with a fond and 

shielding wing, 
Yet, to light the path before her, thus 'tis 

thine from me to sing." 

[The poet proceeds accordingly to fulfil his mission, 
and addresses himself to the poetess in these 

strains : — ] 

Fly then, dear, from passion's pages ; turn from 

proud and gloomy song — 
Though the flowing marge engages, sorrow sobs 

the stream along ; 
For if pride the minstrel fashions, if he bow 

the Muse to wrong, 
Deifying human passions with the sacred breath 

of song, 
Oh ! the ruin he occasions ! hearts that shrink 

from naked sin. 
Won by fallen song's persuasions, gaze, admire, 

fall headlong in. 
Bend thee o'er the flower and fountain, seek 

Killarney's haunted rills, 
Climb Comailte's frowning mountaina — ^E^visw 

lores the MuuBtet \i\W», 



238 POEMS OF 

When the dying sunlight fuses rock and wave 

to molten ore, 
Priestess of the Irish Muses ! roam along Hy- 

Brecan's shore ; 
Or behold with joy and wonder leaning on a 

lover's hand, [Hem !] 

Charging billows burst in thunder on Moyarta's 

iron strand. 
Hushed o'er Ossian's solemn numbers, fill thy 

soul with ancient fire, 
Woo him to thy pictured slumbers — worship 

Morven's cloudy lyre. 
Grandly, when the war was ended, rose to 

hero-shades its song, 
Or 'mid shields in battle blended, rushed like 

Odin's wrath along ; 
Yet sing thou not of martial glory: gentle 

maiden, ah I beware ! 
Conrad, fresh from battle gory, shuddered at 

blood-stained Gulnare. 
Though thy heart perforce rejoices o'er the 

battle bravely done, 
Nature hath unnumbered voices — choose not 

thou her harshest one. 
Mary ! be it thine to soften, not to swell, the 

trumpet's blast ; 
Martial murder's bloody coffin shall unveil a 
fend at last. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 239 

Joy not if our angry Father make the sword a 

chastening rod — 
Every man with sorrow rather should unsheathe 

the scourge of God. 
Sing of love as thou hast sung it — never 

Sappho's deathless lyre, 
Though Apollo's ringlets strung it, glowed with 

warmer, j3weeter fire. 
Oh I if song thus rich be flowing but to shadows 

of thy soul, 
When thy heart indeed is glowing, Heaven! 

how bright its Springtides roll ! 
But to Him who gives the treasure does thy 

wondrous harp belong. 
Oft to Him attune its measure — starwards waft 

the grateful song, 
Till thy soul, to Him returning, hear in choired 

orbs above 
Eaptured seraphs, round Him burning, tune 

their lutes to hymns of love — 
Stainless wings that shame the morning hide 

them from His noontide blaze. 
Immortal crowns their brows adorning dim the 

dazzling Orient's rays ; 
O'er their waving silken winglets streams the 

clustering golden hair, 
Wreathed in breezy waving ringlets over limbs 

divinely fair; 



240 POEMS OF 

There, on gales with music laden, through the 

rainbow-pillared sky, 

Souls as pure as thine, sweet maiden, wrapt in 

heavenly ardour's sigh. 
• • • • • • 

Fare thee well, sweet child of Vision ! bright 
may be thy path below — 

O'er thee hover dreams Elysian — airs of Eden 
round thee blow — 

May thy spirit, lofty, lowly, here exhale celestial 
song, 

And through ages pure and holy, still the ador- 
ing strain prolong I 



BEN HEDEK.* 



I RAMBLED away^ on a festival day, 

From vanity, glare, and noise, 
To calm my soul, where the wavelets roll, 

In solitude's holy joys — 
By the lonely cliffs, whence the white gull 
starts, 

Where the clustering sea-pinks blow. 
And the Irish rose, on the purple quartz, 

Bends over the waves below — 

* The Irish name of Howth ; Howth is Danish, and 
is from the Danish word Hoved, " ».\ieo.d.^^ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 241 

Where the ramaline clings, and the samphire 
swings, 

And the long laminaria trails, 
And the sea-bird springs on his snowy wings, 

To blend with the distant sails. 
I leaned on a rock, and the cool waves there 

Plashed on the shingles round, 
And the breath of Nature lifted my hair — 
Dear God ! how the face of Thy child is fair ! 
And a gush of memory, tears, and pray'r. 

My spirit a moment drowned. 



I bowed me down to the rippling wave — 

For a swift sail glided near — 
And the spray as it fell upon pebble and 
shell 

Received, it may be, a tear. 
For well I remember the festal days, 

On this shore, that Hy-Brassil seemed — 
Tiie friends I trusted, the dreams I dreamed, 

Hopes high as the clouds above — 
Perchance 'twas a dream of a land redeemed. 

Perchance *t>was a dream of love. 
When first I trod on this breezy sod, 

To me it was holy ground. 
For genius and beauty, rays of God, 

Like a swarm oi staxa &\iQi[i<^ XQ^XM^« 



242 POEMS OF 

Well ! -well 1 1 have leamed rade lessons since 
then, 

In life's disenchanted hall ; 
I have scanned the motives and ways of men, 

And the skeleton grins through all. ' 
Of the great heart-treasure of hope and trust 

I exulted to feel mine own, 
Remains, in that down-trod temple's dust, 

But faith in God alone. 
I have seen too oft the domino torn, 

And the mask from the face of men. 
To have aught but a smile of tranquil scorn 

For all believed in then. 
The day is dark as the night with woes. 

And my dreams are of battles lost, 
Of eclipse, phantoms, wrecks, and foes, 

And of exiles tempest-tost. 

No more ! no more 1 On the dreary shore 

I hear a caoina sung ; 
With the early dead is my lonely bed — 

You shall not call me long ; 
I fade away to the home of clay, 

With not one dream fulfilled ; 
My wreathless brow in the dust I bow, 

My heart and harp are stilled. 
Oh ! would I might rest, when my soul departs, 

Where the cluBteringeevieivu\L&\AnH?> 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 243 

And the Irish rose onrihe purple* quartz 
Droops over the waves below — 

Where crystals gleam in the caves about, 
Like virtue in human souls, 

And the victor Sea, with a thunder-shout, 
Through the breach in the rock-wall rolls ! 



LAST SONG OF KIRKE WHITE. 

With fervid youth's ambition, 

I sighed for love and fame — 
And I've won too late contrition, 

A cold heart and broken frame. 
With slow and fatal finger, 

I feel thee, pale decay, 
Within my bosom linger, 

And wear its chords away. 
I know, when mirth's advancing 

In Summer's laughing sky, 
And flowers with zephyrs dancing — 

I know that I must die. 
Farewell to dreamless slumbers ! 

I go, most mournful lyre ! 
Even now the death-song's numbers 

On my trembling; Miqii^ qs:^yc^% 



244 POEMS OF 

No more wild anthems breathing, 

When that pallid lip is mute, 
Dark weeds in triumph wreathing 

Shall crush my stringless lute. 
Yet I've taught thee strains undying, 

And from the funeral bough 
To sorrow's children sighing, 

My epitaph art thou. 
Let no marble falsehood press me, 

Let no pomp insult my tomb, 
But the charmless winds caress me, 

And the heather o'er me bloom. 
Exult ! 'tis Phoebus dooms thee — 

Eeplete with rapture's fire, 
Thine own proud soul consumes thee, 

self-destroying lyre ! 
But hark I celestial voices 

Are chiding my delay. 
And my prison'd soul rejoices, 

And pants to spring away. 
I come, blest dominions 

That alone can fill the heart ! 
The waving of thy pinions 

Maketh music to depart. 
My last farewell is spoken. 

My funeral-song is o'er. 
And the heart in boyhood broken, 

la pangless evermore. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 246 

HAEDKESS CREGAN TO EILY 
O'CONNOR. 

(See "The Collegians," By Gerald Griffin.) 

« 

Sustain me, God ! — for mine own sin 

Has bound me with a fiery chain, 
And — like a corrach drawn within 

A vortex on the black' ning main — 
The while for fame, for life, for love, 

I madly strain with desp'rate oar, 
A spectre laughs the helm above, 

And mocks my frenzied strokes to shore. 
Yet down the wave there beams afar 

The fire of thy dear altar, Hope I 
And, while I view thy cheering star, 

With hell's dark powers I yet may cope. 
Oh yes ! though down the lurid wave 

They try to drag my shrinking soul — 
Though round remorse and vengeance rave. 

And shame's black tides in fury roll — 
Be thine the smile, dear Eily, still 

To light my path with gentle ray ; 
And not the banded powers of ill 

Again shall lead my soul astray. 
And when kind heaven shall cease to frown — 

When this dire cloud of death is past — 
Before thy feet Til throw me down, 

In teara of speechlesa t«iii^\»\rc^ <^<aA\»% 



246 POEfiiS OF 

And thoughts that now in gloom must sleep. 
From forth my burning soul shall flow, 

As rills from frozen Winter leap 
To hail the Summer's golden glow. 



HARDRESS CREGAN TO ANNE CHUTE. 

I DREAMED last night that, pillow'd on thy 
breast, 
I heard thee sing a sad yet pleasing strain — 
How pride once severed hearts that love pos- 
sessed, 
And how, at length, in tears they met again ; 
And o'er the maiden's high and polished brow 
The blush of conscious beauty went and 
came. 
And on the youth's had deeply graven now 
Proud thoughts, and high their characters of 
flame. 
Upon thy breast my soul's subsiding waves 
Sank like the billows on a velvet shore — 
Mjr troubled spirit knew a moment's rest, 
-^ad fondly deemed ita eart»\i\y &otton7% o'^'c. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 247 

But then I woke to weep. Oh 1 why, my love, 

Didst thou so coldly rend our souls apart 1 
From thy sweet altar sternly why remove 

The faithful worship of a fervent heart ? 
And canst thou find in all thy youthful pride, 

Enthroned the queen of Beauty's starry 
ring, 
A joy like that when once we side hy side 

All the sweet eve would smile, and sigh, and 
sing? 
Ah I once thine eyes were not so cold to me, 

And when I trembled as I kissed thee then, 
My happy sighs were echoed back by thee, 

And thy lips trembled upon mine again. 
Though sages paint thy sex to faithless be, 

Alas I I mocked them in too trusting youth ; 
I came and knelt adoringly to thee. 

Oh I bitter wisdom I now I know their truth. 
But since my guiding stars — thy gentle eyes — 

Withdrew their lustre from my darken'd 
way. 
Though many lovely orbs might o'er me rise, 

I trusted never their delusive ray. 
Well I you forsook me without cause assigned 

By you, or giv'n, the angels know, by me — 
Henceforth the cold, calm, loveless joys of 
mind 

Alone on earth mj s^vcivVl^^Xj^l ^^X^*^- 



248 POEMS OF 

60, and be happy in another's arms ; 

Forget our loves — the first with both — and 
tell 
Thy fav'rite, smiling, how thy fickle charms 

Darken'd my soul for ever. Fare thee well ! 



THOSE SUNNY HOUES. 

Those sunny hours — those sunny hours — 

When hope and happiness were born, 
When, culling fancy's fairest flow'rs, 

I heeded not the hidden thorn— 
Yes ! those have fled, and now, bereft 

Of solace, I must yield to fate — 
She spoke the word, and oh ! it left 

My spirit dark and desolate. 

Those sunny hours — those sunny hours — 
When soul was bound in mystic thrall, 
When Eden hope built airy tow'rs, 

And little thought they'd ever fall — 
Have pass'd like gladd'ning dreams which 
leave 
A sense of their heart-dazzling light, 
But make the wond'ring waker grieve 
That they should ever take tXievx ^\^\.* 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 249 

Those sunny hours — those sunny hours — 

Have fled for ever and for aye, 
And in the darkling storm which low'rs 

I read no sign of fairer day. 
The flow'r, when winds of Winter ring, 

Droops on the desolated plain, 
Yet through its tears it looks to Spring — 

But I can never hope again ! 



THE FLOWEE. 



" It requires an eternity to develop all the elements 
of the soul." — Bulwer's Student, 



In visioned sleep I saw a flower unfolding. 

From the first moment of its humble birth, 
When loving spirits hovered round, beholding 

With joy the young leaves bursting from the 
earth. 
She sprang towards heaven, with many storms 
contending, 

But love watched o'er her hourly as she rose, 
With shielding wing and genial breath defending 

Fromquiveredlightninganddescendingsnows; 

And still she soared, by angel hands protected, 
Her coloured chalice fed with holy dew, 

Until, at length, her glorious crown erected, 
High o'er the cloud8,^aa\i\^ltwsL\£L^x\a^^^^^ 



250 POEMS OF 

And then before the ii^ing^d princes kneeling, 
I prayed them, tearful, of the mystic flower ; 

Till one, his breath of light in mist concealing, 
A moment wrapt me to his starry bower. 

Upon that orb's extremest summit standing. 

He said, " O'er Eden's rainbow-coloured floor 
Behold the flower still lives, and, still expanding, 

Fast by the throne shall bloom for evermore I 
Immortal fountains there her beauties nourish, 

Each hour more glorious as the ages roll. 
Heir of Eternity ! thus Man shall flourish — 

The flower thou seest is the human soul !" 



ST. KEVIN TO HIS SISTER. 

Sweet sister Eva, my dark soul is weary 

Pursuing phantoms, still in doubt and tears, 
With bitter pain, through deserts foul and 
dreary. 
Entrapped in ambush, and transfixed with 
spears. 
Sister, to thee I come in humble sorrow, 
To kaow the future and depVot^ \Ai<^ ^^\>. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILUAMS. 251 

Gaze through my spirit — say, shall mercy's 
morrow, 
Through griefs dark billowyshine on me at last t 
The more I strive to virtue's high dominion, 
With faltering footstep, but unshaken will, 
With sullied rolbe and sorely wounded pinion, 

I fall down wailing from the sacred hill. 
My soul was once a pictured constellation, 

Drean^-peopled ever with seraphic throngs ; 
I knew no joy like tears of adoration, 
I loved DO music but celestial songs. 
My heart is silent, and mine eyes grow moister. 

All sweet emotions overflow my soul, 
When through the woods that shrine the lonely 
cloister 
The vesper bells in holy sadness toll. 
Splendour of Godl how fair and Christ-like 
shining 
The soul arrayed in virtue's beamy robe ; 
Such heaven's pure queen, the stars her brows 
entwining. 
Sun-clad, and gliding on the lunar globe. 
I see afar the lofty crystal mountain 

In rainbows veiled, whence gush the springs 
of life. 
And thirst to quaff them, but no sacred fountain 
Revives my heart, that faints in ceaseless 
strife. 



252 POEMS OF 

Oh, could I burst the heavy chains that bind 
me, 
As soars a golden eagle to the sun, 
No cloud should stay, nor brightest lightning 
blind me, 
Till poised 'mid heaven my starry home 
were won. 
But vain ! in vain ! for, ever upward soaring, 

The shining gates a fearful darkness bars. 
Through which, with tears, I see the blest 
adoring. 
Among the splendent temples of the stars. 
By Glendalough one summer eve I slumbered, 
Night's holy standard o'er the lake unfurled. 
And swift as thought, as angel shields un- 
numbered, 
Flashed forth the armies of the starry world ; 
And from mine eyes the film of earth was 
riven, 
On ev'ry globe I saw an em'rald throne. 
And one to each victorious soul was given : 

But ah ! I wept — in vain I sought my own. 
Sweet sister Eva, child of song and vision. 
Harp of the cloister, songstress of the 
shrine, 
Eead thou my dream: thy voice be fate's 
decision ; 
To hear thee humbly, and obey,\>ftxsim^* 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 253 

And if thy lips command me forth for ever, 

Beyond the burning portals of the dawn, 
Fear not ! our God shall aid my weak endeavour, 

And fix my will like oaks on Derrybawn.* 
And as with ease creative sculpture fashions 

The soft, yet fire-resisting Brocka stone, t 
My heart, unscathed by earth's consuming 
passions. 

Shall melt to grace's plastic hand alone. 



ST. KEVIN TO KATHLEEN. 

Come, Kathleen, pure and soft as dew, 

The lake is heaving at our feet, 
The stars ascend the eternal blue. 

Primeval granite makes our seat ; 
Beneath eternal skies above, 

'Mid everlasting hills around, 
I speak of love — immortal love — 

Such as in Eden first was found. 

* Derrybawn, the hill of white oaks, overhangs 
Glendalough, and still abounds with the forest tree 
from which it takes its name. 

t From the Brocka mountain is quarried Actinolite, 
containing garnets and asbestos, to which latter con- 
stituent it is indebted for a great power of resisting 
fire. The beautiful church of St. Kevin is built eutirel^ 
of this stone. 



254 POBMS OF 

Let each look through the other's soul, 

Until each thought within that lies, 
Like spar o'er which these clear waves roll, 

Unveil its lustre to our eyes. 
I bless thee, Kathleen, o'er and o'er, 

For all the joy thy smiles have brought me, 
And mysteries of loving lore 

Thy very presence oft hath taught me. 
For beauty innocent as thine — 

Such lovely soul in lovely form — 
Still makes diviner aught divine, 

And calms the spirit's wildest storm. 
Whene'er I muse — how oft ! — on thee, 

Half seen, each high and holy feeling 
Of love and immortality 

Takes shape, like angels round me wheeling. 
To thee I owe the purest flow'rs 

Of song that o'er my pathway burst. 
And holy thoughts, at midnight hours, 

From thine unconscious beauty nurst. 
There is no stain on flow'rs like these, 

That from my heart to thine are springing ; 
And thoughts of thee are like the breeze. 

When bells for Midnight Mass are ringing. 
Without thy knowledge, from thee beams 

Some gentle and refining light. 
That fills my heart with childhood's dreams. 

And I grow purer in tliy 6v^\i, 



RICHABD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 255 

Tis thus the sacred constellations 

Transpierce and cleanse earth's grosser fires ; 
And high angelic emanations 

lUnminate inferior choirs. 
Thou art no queen — no hero I — 

But thou'rt the fairest Christian maid 
To whom the worship of a sigh 

By Christian bard was ever paid. 
And this I am. Sire ! Grod above I 

Who made my soul of that rich flame, 
All adoration, song, and love, 

That from thine own great Spirit came I 
Than mine no purer, warmer zeal 

For justice, and sublime desire 
Of freedom, truth, and human weal. 

Glows in the seraph ranks of fire. 
IVe bowered thee in a lowly shrine — 

My bosom's convent-garden, sweet*- 
Where song and prayer their sighs combine, 

Where love and adoration meet. 
I've robed thee, like Ban-Tierna olden, 

Of Eire, in a vesture green ; 
And clasped thee with a girdle golden, 

0*er all my dream-world Saint and Queen. 
Pve starred thy hands with Irish gems. 

And sought, to wreathe thy rich brown hair. 
The oak-wood's dewy diadems. 

And won thee sacred ah«a£Lio<^\sL& \*\k!^\^ 



'4 



256 POEMS OF 

Oh I would that thou couldst read my heart, 

Or that my lips might be unsealed, 
And by love's lamp, in every part, 

My spirit's inmost crypt revealed I 
Within, like maid in minstrel tale. 

One lovely vision sleeping lies ; 
Beside her Hope, with forehead pale, 

And timid Joy, with downcast eyes. 
'Tis Love, in long enchantment bound, 

I know not how, in torpor there — 
The spells obey but one sweet sound. 

When Kathleen sings they melt in air. 
See ! over yonder mountains, cracked 

And sundered by volcanic fire. 
Sings Glendalough's white cataract — 

Fit chord of such a granite lyre. 
Aud then the cloud-born waterfall 

Summons, aloud from rock and wood. 
The child-like springs, and leads them all, 

With laughter, to this gloomy flood. 
And thus thy love my heart shall lave — 

When Sorrow's rocks, faith-cloven, sever. 
Giving a glimpse of God — and save 

Life's current pure and fresh for ever. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 257 

THE PRAISE OF MICHAEL, 

FIRST OF THE "SEVEN SPIRITS." 



Prince of the Seraphim 1 breath of our Lord ! 
Unsheathe once again thy all-conquering sword. 
Let the flash of thine advent illumine the sea, 
Where the nations weep wearily, waiting for 
thee. 

Our hearts have grown hard, and our charity 

cold. 
And the God of the Age is the Devil of Gold ; 
While hatred, injustice, and tyranny rule 
Over virtue, like Christ, in the rags of a fool. 

But the pregnant times heave with a wonderful 

birth- 
New portents calamitous darken the earth ; 
And pestilence, famine, and "rumours of war,"* 
Proclaim the Avenger's sublime avatar. 

Already rush onwards thy crown-crushing wheels, 
And beneath them revolving the firmament 

reels ; 
For strong, shining, and vast as Saturnian rings 
Are the war-orbs that shatter the anti-Christ 

kings. 



* Reyelationa, 



Oh 1 to Bee thee resplendeat, in Heaven's first 

war, 
From Lutufer rescuing star after star, 
Till each £ane in Creation's catbedral of light 
Was cleansed frov pollution, emeiging more 

brighi I 

Before thee sre thanllers, al 
Archangels around thi 
For the arrows of 
Thy aun-ahielded 




Hosannah to Jesus! what Xubtlanl 
Pealed out to the galaxy's iktermi 
As the angels of Lyra* sai 
thrones, 

And the Cross" and the Altai 



Where the double stars wh^l, and the coloured 

suns glow. 
And the fiery-haired comets flas^^ash to and 

fro, ^-..^ 

Bound about, in and out, from Uranus to Mars, 
Like shuttles of Same through the looms of the 

stars. 



* Tke oonBteUaUoo* w oMOftl. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 259 

From the many-shrined universe' altars of gold 
Articulate thunders of psalmody rolled ; 
Chime the joy-bells of Heaven victoriously 

round, 
And the choired constellations Te Deum resound. 

Oh ! when shall the kingdoms thou guardest be 

ours, 
And the martyrs ascend to the Thrones and the 

Pow'rs ; 
While the tyrants of earth, who are drunk with 

their gore, 
Shall see God in Judgment, to see Him no more t 

How grand shall the scene be — ^how awful the 

day 
When Michael shall rush o'er the prostrate 

array — 
Through forests of lances, o'er mountains of 

swords 
On Blasphemy's myriads of God-daring hordes. 

And engines of fire and of vapour are there — 
From the earth they wrench thunder, and 

lightning from air — 
And the kingdoms of dole have unfolded with 

joy 
The dark secrets of hell, that teach man to 

destroy. 



260 POElfS OF 

But I see thee, strong Seraph, in anger descend, 
Thy swift wings the ominous thunder-cloud 

rend, 
Thou leapest in wrath on the shuddering ground, 
And the mountains are shaken with terror 

around. 

Thou whose zeal all-consaming avenged Him, 

of yore, 
Whom the ranks of archangels embattled adore 
As Lord God of Hosts, when He gazed on His 

foes, 
And the crash of immortals in ruin arose. 

O tempest-maned war-horse, with levin-fire 
shod. 

In battle who borest the champion of God 

O'er the panoplied sun-kings and throne-bear- 
ing cars 

Bushing on like vast fragments of fire-shat- 
tered stars. 

Triumphant for ever shall be thy career 

Through time and through space, to the utter- 
most sphere, 

Till the victor thou bearest at length has 
unfurled 

Cbriat'a banner of love o'er each system and 
world. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 261 



SISTER OF CHARITY. 

Sister of Charity ! gentle and dutiful, 

Loving as seraphim, tender and mild, 
In humbleness strong, and in purity beautiful, 

In spirit heroic, in manners a child ; 
Ever thy love, like an angel, reposes 

With hovering wings o'er the sufferer here. 
Till the arrows of death are half hidden in roses. 
And hope, speaking prophecy, smiles on the 
bier. 
When life like a vapour is slowly retiring, 

As clouds in the dawning to heaven uproUed, 
Thy prayer, like a herald, precedes him expiring, 
And the cross on thy bosom his last looks 
behold. 
And, oh ! as the Spouse to thy words of love 
listens, 
What hundred-fold blessings descend on thee 
then! 
Thus the flower-absorbed dew in the bright iris 
glistens, 
And returns to the \i!&e& mot^ fv^c^ ^^^^cgl. 



262 POBMS OF 

Sister of Charity ! child of the Holiest I 

Oh I for thy loving soul, ardent as pure ! 
Mother of orphans, and friend of the lowliest ! 
Stay of the wretched, the guilty, the poor ! 
The embrace of the Godhead so plainly enfolds 
thee, 
Sanctity's halo so shrines thee around, 
Daring the eye that unshrinking beholds thee, 
Nor droops in thy presence abashed to the 
ground. 
Dim is the fire of the sunniest blushes 

Burning the breast of the maidenly rose. 
To the exquisite bloom that thy pale beauty 
flushes 
When the incense ascends and the sanctuary 
glows. 
And the music, that seems Heaven's language, 
is pealing — 
Adoration has bowed him in silence and 
sighs. 
And man, intermingled with angels, is feeling 
The passionless rapture that comes from the 
skies. 
Oh ! that this heart, whose unspeakable treasure 

Of love hath been wasted so vainly on clay, 
Like thine, unallured by the phantom of 

pieasure, 
Ooald rend every earthly aSecVioii w«:s\ 



RICHARD D^ALTON WILLIAMS. 263 

And yet, in thy presence, the billows, subsiding, 

Obey the strong effort of reason and will ; 

And my soal, in her pristine tranquillity gliding, 

Is calm as when Grod bade the ocean be still ! 

Thy soothing, how gentle I thy pity, how tender I 

Ghoir<music thy voice is, thy step angel-grace, 

And thy union with Deity shrines in a splendour 

Subdued, but unearthly, thy spiritual face. 
When the frail chains are broken a captive that 
bound thee 
Afar from thy home in the prison of clay, 
Bride of the Lamb ! and Earth's shadows around 
thee 
Disperse in the blaze of eternity's day; 
Still mindful, as now, of the sufferer's story. 
Arresting the thunders of wrath ere they 
roll, 
Intervene, as a cloud, between as and His glory. 
And shield from His lightnings the shudder- 
ing soul ; 
And mild, as the moonbeams in Autumn de-i 
scending. 
That lightning, extinguished by mercy, shall 
fall. 
While He hears, with the wail of the penitent 
blending. 
Thy prayer, holy daughter of Vincent De 
Paul I 



264 FOEHS OT 



THE HYMN OF ST. BRIGID. 

The midnight wind roared through the oaks of 
Kildare, 
And a clang from the round tow'r at intervals 
came, 
While St. Bride, at the altar, was kneeling in 
pray'r, 
And her sisters attended the mystical flame ; 
Her whole spirit wrapt in unspeakable love, 

Immersed and consumed, as in billows of fire, 
She seems a young seraph adoring above, 
Transfigured in flames of ecstatic desire. 

*^ As the levin-flash fuses the steel in its blaze, 
As ocean drinks up all the torrents that be, 
Dissolve thus my heart in Thy charity's rays. 
And absorb, in Thy vastness, my errors and 
~ me. 
Oh I let not the numberless sins that I bear, 

Debar me from drinking Thy blood as it flows; 
If the thrones of Thy kingdom the just only 
share, 
Tbou need'st not have died to take on Thee 
oar woea ; 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 265 

Bat to ransom the lost ones Thou earnest from 
bliss, 
Twas sinners like me brought Thee down from 
the spheres, 
And Thy wounds do not shrink from the peni- 
tent's kiss, 
But the smiles of Thy Godhead illumine his 
tears. 
Thrice holy I manna, from heaven's high 
hall, 
Sweet banquet! the soul of the weary that 
cheers, 
Our Father, Friend, Lover, and God — ^Thou 
art all 
Our Hope, Strength, and Life in this valley of 
tears. 
Ah ! who would not mingle his life-blood with 
Thine, 
And perish in torture to love Thee an hour, 
To die at Thy feet, in these ardours divine. 
As in noon's fervid splendour expireth a 
flow'rl 
Yet retire in Thy glory, my bosom's adored, 
Or unfetter my soul from its prison of 
clay, 
For Thy full-flowing brightness, ineffable 
Lord, 
CoDsumea me too fiercely m xv^Vwt^^ v»^« 



266 POEUS OF 

O Spring of Contrition ! a penitent cries ; 
Oh! sprinkle our souls with the sorrowful 
dews 
That burst from Thy brow and that streamed 
from Thine eyes, 
When they crowned Thee on Calvary " King 
of the Jews." 
When the ruin shall come, that mine eyes may 
not see, 
Upon cloister and shrine where Thy name 
was adored, 
And the temples and thrones of our island 
shall be 
The spoil of a barbarous foreigner's sword ; 
As Thou guided our fathers triumphant away 
From the host of a tyrant, through ocean, of 
yore, 
O Heart of the Crucified! shield them that 
day, 
And roll round their march the Bed Sea of 
Thy gore ! 
Though they madden the vanquished with 
famine and flame. 
And pour forth the blood of our nation like 
wine, 
O God 1 may no trial of torture or shame 
Crash out from their bosoms Thy spirit 
divine. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 267 

May the hope and the love Thou hast bound- 
lessly given 
To the heart of this people, grow stronger 
in tears, 
Till from spirit and frame ev'ry fetter be riven. 
And Liberty's bow through the tempest 
appears ; 
And the faith Thou hast planted, at length a 
fair tree, 
So long richly nourished with patriot gore, 
Shall soar from the mountains, umbrageous, to 
Thee, 
And a nation of saints in its shadow adore !" 



INVOCATION. 

Enlighten me, Lord, with Thy life-giving 
beams, 
This darkness expel from my soul. 
Restrain the wild flights of my wandering 
dreams. 
And my fearful temptations control. 

Dark passions, like serpents, are hissing within — 

Oh I ever to save me be nigb, 
Or entangled, ensnared in the meshes of sin^ 

// Thou Jeavest me, Lord, 1 i^isXV ^V6. 



268 POBMS OF 

Be Thou my defender, and shield with Thy 
wing 
My heart from soft luxury's thrall ; 
And the lyre that is blessed with Thy praises 
shall sing, 
Like the harp that was struck before Saul. 

Command the wild waves and the tempests to 
sleep. 
And say to the sea, " Be thou still," 
And unto the North wind, " Blow soft o'er the 
deep," 
And the ocean shall calm at Thy will. 

From Thy fountains on high, the pure streams 
of Thy truth 
Through the vales of the universe send — 
For my bosom is clay that is parched by the 
drought, 
Till the showers of Thy mercy descend. 

Drop down the rich dews of Thy grace from 
above, 
Distil Thy soft rains o'er the earth, 
And sweet tears of contrition, devotion, and 

love, 
To the fruits of the soul aVvaiY ^\v^\At\Xi, 



RICHARD d'AXTON WILLIAMS. 269 

Lift up my weak mind, overwhelmed with sin — 
My heart from all creatures set free, 

That never aught human that spirit may win, 
That has once been illumined by Thee. 

From affections of earth draw away my desires — 
Yain affections that weary the breast ; 

But consume me, dear Lord, with Thine own 
hallowed fires, 
That in Thee may my heart find its rest. 



A THOUGHT ON CALVAEY. 

Crowned and throned, King Jesus, bleed- 
ing, 

Reigns in gory pomp on high ; 
Men around, like devils, taunt Him, 

Tears of angels dim the sky. 
Awful ichor, wave immortal, 

0*er a suppliant sinner roll ; 
Cleanse me in your purple torrents. 

Heal, revive, inspire my soul. 
From Thy wounded breast, my Saviour, 

Lo I the saving fountains play. 
Royal river I in thy flowing 

Wash my scarlet goiit «ii\vvj* 



270 FOBlfS OF 

Bat, my soul ! what mortal sadness 

Hangs on Jesus' brow the while, 
And a God-like sorrow mingles 

With th' expiring victor's smile ) 
Ah I for us His heart is breaking. 

Yes, for man — ^the cold ingrate^ 
Who returns a God's affection 

With a worse than demon hate. 
Not the nails that tear each fibre — 

Not the spear His heart within — 
Lacerate that loving bosom 

Like our crushing load of sin. 
He had smiled on Calv'ry*s altar, 

Sweet as when enthroned above, 
Were His countless pangs rewarded 

By our dearly purchased love; 
But our cold and heartless torpor 

Bises on His shrinking view — 
Not alone His veins are streaming, 

But His soul is bleeding too. 
Jesus I stay my shuddering spirit^ 

Horror loads my struggling breath, 
I am guilty of Thy murder, 

I have sold my God to death. 
Oh, can Earth — can Hell have torments 

That for crime like this atone ) 
WUt Thou rise and crush creation, 
T/zundering from TVuue aN?lv)\ VJax^w^l 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 271 

Shall the lovely stars, extinguished, 

Be a howling waste again ; 
And red lightnings blast for ever 

Every trace of guilty men 1 
Hark ! He speaks : *' For all My anguish — 

All My blood and tortures here — 
All thy malice — ^grant Me only, 

Contrite sinner, one pure tear." 



VESPER HYMN. 

TO THB OUABDIAN ANGELS OF IRELAND. 

Sinking afar o'er the deep's mighty fountains, 
While the sun's rayless brow upon night's 
bosom faints ; 
Descend, Guardian Spirits I encamp on our 
mountains. 
And lovingly watch o'er the Island of Saints. 

And while to His ear rise your " thrice holy** 
numbers,* 
May an aura divine through night's solitudes 
blow, 
Which shall fill with strange music our many- 
dreamed slumbers, 
And wrap the full heart in oblivion of woe. 

* The Tnaa|p.oTk« 



272 POEICS OF 

When sleep, sorrow's tomb with her flowery 
wand sealing, 
The soft pall of silence o'er life's battle flings^ 
Then glimpses of Eden in visions revealing, 
O'ershadow our rest with your sheltering 
wings. 

And let us, in dreams of the soul's native 
regions, 

Behold — what saint only or poet may say — 
Spear, banner, and falchion of cherubim legions 

Proudly waved in the blaze of angelic array I 

From the rill-gushing mountains, the thrones 
of your glory, 
The towers of your watching, the homes of 
your love. 
Look down on our slavery's tear-blotted story, 
And rush to our rescue with strength from 
above. 

Ere the black steed of Famine,* in tempest 
descending. 
The young harvest tramples still greenly that 
springs. 
Oh! yet o'er the vales' precious fruitfulness 
bending. 
Expand the vast shields of your emerald wings. 

* Apoc. cap. vi. Yoraft 5» 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 273 

And ere shroud-mantled Pestilence' noisome 
breath, wither 
The flow'rs through which lately young 
Health, smiling, trod, 
Whence the tree of Life blossoms, Raphael ! oh I 
hither, 
On balm-dropping pinion, come, ''Healing 
of God !" 

Till, from Famine and Plague and worse Thral- 
dom emerging. 
More purified, chainless, and chastened we 
stand: 
All hearts to one centre, united, converging. 
And Love, Peace, and Plenty, replenish the 
land. 

Gome 1 come to us, Angels of Hope and of 
Healing, 
With chaplet of snowdrop* and plumes of 
the dove — 
And, like rainbow-clad showers to the fainting 
earth stealing, 
Come, green-wiog^d Mercy and fire-arrowed 
Love! 



* This flower has been beautifully feigned to have 
been formed by an an^el from a falling snowflake, and 
presented, as a symbol of Hope, to Eve trembUsL^^in^V:^ 
terror in the first snowBtorm. 



274 POEMS OF 



KYRIE ELEISON. 



Life and death are ia Thy hand, 

Lord, have mercy ! 
The blight came down at Thy command, 

Christ, have mercy ! 
The famme pang and fever pain 
Tear the nation's heart in twain — 
Human aid is sought in vain — 

Parce nobis, Domine 1 

Loud, more loud, their footsteps fall. 

Lord, have mercy ! 
Heaven is one vast funeral pall, 

Christ, have mercy ! 
Twin destroyers, hand in hand, 
They stalk along the blasted land — 
Who before their frown shall stand ? 

Parce nobis, Domine ! 

Without a grave, like weeds to lie, 

Lord, have mercy ! 
Despairing thousands wait to die, 

Christ, have mercy ! 
The famished infant vainly cries — 
Its mother dead beside it lies — 
Let our anguish pierce the skies — 

Parce uoVAa, I3o\DMifc\ 



RICHARD D'ALTOK WILLIAMS. 275 

Outcast of the nations, long, 

Lord, have mercy ! 

We bear a foreign tyrant's wrong, 

Christ, have mercy I 

Black our fearful crime must be, 

With triple scourges lashed by Thee — 

Famine, Plague, and Slavery — 

Parce nobis, Domine \ 



Oh J if torture might atone, 

Lord, have mercy ! 

With tears of blood before Thy throne, 

Christ, have mercy ! 

Six hundred years we toil in chains ; 

We sow, but aliens reap our plains : 

The life is frozen in our veins — 

Parce nobis, Domine ! 



Disarmed and bleeding, here apart, 

Lord, have mercy I 
A vulture preys upon our heart, 

Christ, have mercy 1 
Oh ! bitter is our Helot doom — 
In life no joy, in death no tomb— - 
Despair and vengeance rule the gloom — 



276* PQKMB OF 

Without a prayer or passing bell. 

Lord, have mercy ! 
The shroudless armies hourly swell, 

Christ, have mercy ! 
The dying, ghastlier than the dead, 
With blanchM lips have vainly said, 
** Give us this day our daily bread " — 

Parce nobis, Domine ! 



Woe ! woe ! to feel the life-blood freeze, 

Lord, have mercy ! 

Fruitlessly, by slow degrees, 

Christ, have mercy ! 

Oh I had we fallen on the plain 

In rapid battle swiftly slain, 

We had not perished thus in vain — 

Parce nobis, Domine ! 



The grave shall wider, deeper grow, 

Lord, have mercy ! 

My soul forebodes a darker woe, 

Christ, have mercy ! 

No food on earth — no health in air — 

The sword were mercy to despair. 

Avenger I when thine arm is bare, 

Parce nobVa, I>oxxi\Ti^\ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 277 

Their God is wroth, our f oemen say ; 

Lord, have mercy ! 
Oar Father ! turn Thine ire away ; 

Christ, have mercy I 
Bid thine angel cease to slay — 
Have mercy, Heaven, on feeble clay — ^ 
Hear Thy stricken people pray 

Parce nobis, Domine I 

Before the isle is all a grave, 

Lord, have mercy ! 

Arise ! mysterious God, and save ; 

Christ, have mercy ! 

But if the pestilential sun 

Must see us wither, one by one. 

Thy hand hath made — ^Thy will be done — 

Parce nobis, Domine! 



CONTRITION— ADORATION. 

Oh ! not to me the lyre of a spirit singing nigh 
Thee, 

Where the myriad starry swarms of the clus- 
tered suns rush by Thee ; 

Alas ! my fallen soul ! I have dared so Oft defy 
Thee, 

Though grief would draw me near, my guiltiness 
muBt fij Thee. 



278 POEMS OF 

If they, the vilest, may adore — even Lucifer 
address Thee— 

Let a child of clay and sin from his deep pros- 
tration bless Thee. 

May the purest of all creatures, who as Mother 
here caressed Thee, 

With restless intercession for my forfeit glory 
press Thee, 

And through tears my life shall love, and 
through blood my death confess Thee. 

Restore the child-like innocence, faith, terror, 

joy, and wonder. 
That saw Thee in the holy stars — that heard 

Thee in the thunder — 
That blessed Thee in all lovely things above 

the clouds and under. 
Ere sin had rent the mystic robe, that made 

me Thine, asunder; 

Before I knew, with impious pride, to question 

and to doubt Thee, 
Or heard, with learned blasphemies, the sneer- 
ing sceptic flout Thee. 
O Gk>dl withdraw the awful gloom my folly 

hung about Thee ; 
The aun ia dark — ^my soul is dead — and Heaven 
ia Hell without Thee I 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAlfS. 279 

Sweet Jesus I aid my feebleness, assist my weak 

endeavour, 
The fetters of my slavery at length through 

Thee to sever. 
Shall souls which die to please Thy heart, yet 

living please Thee never, 
And, loving Thee far more than life, be still Thy 

foes for everl 



Oh, place me in some distant orb that scarcely 
gleams before Thee, 

Upon creation's twilight verge, in silence to 
adore Thee ; 

I may not with sublimer souls approach the 
brightness o'er Thee — 

Be mine the dust, the gloom, the tears— con- 
trition, I implore Thee ! 



And the Crucified appeared that hour, all pallid, 

faint, and gory. 
And the bitter crown of woe upon His wounded 

temples wore He ; 
He heard from Heaven's highest throne the 

contrite sinner's story. 
And flew to make that heart the home of all 

Hia love and glory \ 



280 POEMS OF 

Agios! Athanabos! Holiest! Diyin^st! 

Thou through the veil of the firmament Who 

shinest, 
Thou Who on the wings of the Cherubim re- 

clinest ! 
Agios! Athanatos! Holiest! Divinest! 

Soul of the Universe ! Father of the Ages ! 
Whose name is of stars on the Heaven's azure 

pagesj! 
Raise all to Thee through still ascending stages, 
Soul of the Universe, Father of the A^es ! 



ADORO TE DEVOTE. 

HIDDEN God ! devoutly I adore Thee 
Beneath these figures truly, though con- 
cealed : 
My heart bows down undoubtingly before Thee, 
Lost in the marvel Thou hast here revealed. 
Hail, hidden Jesus! strengthen, we implore, 
The faith of all who lovingly adore. 

Sight, taste, and touch in vain the mind deceive. 

Thy word alone suflSces, Lord, for me — 
Whatever God's Son hath uttered I believe; 
Nought than the word ol Ttxitti (ioa traer be. 
Hail, bidden Jesus; etc. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 281 

Upon the cross a cloud Thy Godhead wore, 
Here Thy humanity is shrouded too ; 

Yet both confessing truly I adore, 
And what the good thief prayed I humbly sue. 
Hail, hidden Jesus ! etc. 

Thy wounds, like Thomas, I do not behold, 
Still I confess Thee God, all Gods above ; 

Grant me still more this fix^d faith to hold, 
In Thee to hope — ^Thee always more to love. 
Hail, hidden Jesus ! etc. 

sweet memorial of Christ's death for me, 
True living bread, conferring life on man, 

Grant that my soul may ever feast on Thee, 
And taste Thy sweetness as Faith only can. 
Hail, hidden Jesus ! etc. 

pious Pelican, Lord Jesus ! hear. 

Cleanse me, a sinner, in Thy healing blood, 
One drop of which, or even one sacred tear 
Could save the world — ^yet Thou wouldst 
shed a flood. 
Hail, hidden Saviour ! etc. 

For only this sufficed Thy love to show, 
And thus the frozen heart of man to gain — 

From all Thy wounds the willing fountains flow, 
A thousand tongues in every bleeding vein. 
Haili hidden Baviout\ e^A% 



282 POEMS OF 

Sweet Jesus, whom I now behold concealed, 

What I 80 thirst for hasten, I implore, 
That, seeing Thy bright countenance revealed, 
My happy soul Thy glory may adore ! 

For evermore I 
HaiL hidden Gh>dhead ! strengthen, we 

implore, 
The £aith of all who lovingly adore I 



BEFOEE THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 

Teach me, O Gh>d, the truest adoration ! 

Give me to know, in Thy mysterious ways, 
Shall hymns of joy and fervent aspiration, 

Or tearful silence, best proclain Thy praise 1 
Whene'er I bow in humble prayer before Thee, 

So great my load of sorrow and of sin — 
So great my joy one moment to adore Thee — 

Sobs and hosannas strive my heart within. 

Woe for the soul that cannot here discover 
Her own Creator and the angels' King — 
Kiog oi the angels — ^but man'a more than lover, 
Tortured and slain for our vaa\i i«iX^QiaL\Ti%\ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 283 

And yet the vilest dust concealeth wonders, 
Teems with strange marvels — miracles indeed: 

And heaven hath distance, splendour^ time, and 
numbers 
The lordliest mind shall never grasp and read. 

^f 
Still man, who sees Thee in the humblest flower, 

Who knows so little round him or above, 
While he perforce admits Thy boundless power, 

Presumes to set a limit to Thy love ! 
Had heaven to me the shining sceptre yielded 

Of some strong angel, whose bright throne 
may be 
O'er many a Btarry myriad lightning-shielded. 

In glory marching through eternity — 

Oh t happier far, in humble adoration 
Were I, to bend my pride, head, heart, and 
knee, 
And feel, no more a discord in creation. 

My soul in harmony with her and Thee ! 
Before Thee then this world seems cold and 
narrow. 
The spirit blossoms like the prophet's rod. 
And every sigh becomes a burning arrow 
Whose bright point flashes through the heart 
of God! 



284 POEMS OF 

Thou hast unnumbered Seraphim to sing Thee 

Adoring canticles from pole to pole — 
But we, alas I faint praise, poor offering bring 
Thee, 

Yet Thou hast died for this — the human soul ! 
Oh ! make it Thine by grace and tribulation, 

And when life's brief calamity is o'er, 
Crown us in love's sublimest adoration. 

Where faith is lost in vision evermore ! 



TO OUR LADY OF VICTORY. 

Hail I holy Queen ! all hail ! Ladye, 
Life, sweetness, hope, and love — 
To thee we raise our ceaseless wail. 
Mourning and weeping, faint and pale, 
Eve's children, in this tearful vale, 
We cry to thee above, Marie, 
We cry to thee above. 

Sweet' Queen of mercy! deign, Ladye, 

To turn thine eyes below : 
And when we've o'er life's treacherous main, 
Poor exiles, sailed in grief and pain, 
Th^ womb's blest fruit, our Jesus slain, 
To as in glory show, Marie, 
To as in glory show. 



RICHARD d'ALTON WILLIAMS. 285 

clement Mother! hear, Ladye, 

Virgin undefiled ! 
By every holy hope and fear, 
By every precious smile and tear 
That hailed His birth or wept his bier, 

Receive me as thy child, Marie, 
Receive me as thy child. 



Tower of silver shields! * Ladye, 

What victories are thine I 
Not cloven casques in tented fields — 
No sword of strife Madonna wields, 
Yet hell in arms before thee yields. 

And pauses wrath divine, Marie, 
And pauses wrath divine. 



War is our lot below, Ladye, 

Whether that war we wage 
With sickness, poverty, dearth, and woe. 
The passions within that surge and glow. 
With human tjrrant or fiendish foe, 

Tis the same from age to age, Marie, 
The same from age to age. 



* CaatioVe ol OttioXIv^^^ 



286 POSMS OF 

Peace is an idle dream, Ladye, 

lis deadly strife, around. 
Bitter and red is time's turbid stream, 
Bound us the phantoms of cloudland scream, 
And rarely the swords of the angels gjeam 

Till the soul is bound or crowned, Marie, 
Till God is lost or found. 



Bat we call thee not in vain, Ladye, 

To the mortal strife of souls, 
To walk through this fiery battle-plain, 
To teach the weakest to fight amain. 
Saying, ''Who slays not shall be surely slain,'' 

And the combat onward rolls, Marie, 
The combat onward rolls. 



When despair with her sable wings, Ladye, 

Overshadows me like the tomb. 
And sceptic pride, like a Winter, flings 
Her frozen chains o'er the holy springs 
Of faith and love, and no longer sings, 

Sweet hope through the rayless gloom, 
Marie, 
Sweet hope through the r«j\eBa ^owbl— 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 287 

One pillar unbroken stands, Ladye, 

One star through the night appears — 
I call on thee, and celestial brands 
Shiver asunder the tempter's bands, 
And grace distils from thy radiant hands, 
Like a guardian angel's tears, Marie, 
Like a guardian angel's tears. 



While this earthly vesture mars, Ladye, 
The ascent to our native sphere, 

And the yearning soul, through her dungeon 
bars, 

Gazes aloft on her home of stars. 

And the discord of life's unceasing wars 
Grates on her tender ear, Marie, 

Grates on her tender ear — 



Oh, turn thy gracious eyes, Ladye, 
When grace seems all withdrawn, 

And the heart, like a tomb where the dead 
Christ lies. 

Shall be angel-thronged, and the soul shall 
rise 

An immortal God^ through the joyful skies. 
In a resurrection dawn, Marie, 

In a resurrection dawn. 



288 POEMS OF 

When my soul revolts at wrong, Ladye, 

And my heart is sick with care, 
Thou pointest, in tears, to the ruffian throng 
Who drag the bleeding Christ along, 
With curses, sneers, and ribald song. 

And mock thy mute despair, Marie, 
And mock thy mute despair. 



Aloft is raised the sign, Ladye, 

By visioned seers foretold, * 
And trickling down His brow diviae 
The blood-gouts dim His fading eyne, 
Vnd o'er His amber coolun shine. 

Like rubies dropped on gold, Marie, 
Like rubies dropped on gold. 



Ob, hear thy child implore, Ladye, 

The grace, all gifts above. 
Thy heart to please and Christ's adore 
The Eucharistic veils before, 
And learn therein the saintly lore 
0/ humble faith and love^ Marie, 
Oi bumble faith and love. 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. '^ 289 

At thy feet proud heads incline, Ladye, 

In contrition's joy of woe ! 
Than the " Holy of Holies " a holier shrine 
The heart of Jesus has found in thine, 
Whence His mercies beam and His glories 
shine. 

And the tears of repentance flow, Marie, 
And the tears of repentance flow. 



From broken faith and truth, Ladye, 

Protect our souls alway ; 
From the crimes of age and the snares of 

youth, 
From slander's poisonous serpent-tooth, 
And the pitiless Pharisee's scorn of ruth,* 

Defend our lives we pray, Marie, 
Defend our lives we pray. 

When the poor are left by all, Ladye, 

When sinners their peers condemn. 
In the darkest depth where poor clay can fall. 
Thy heart replies to affliction's call, 
And thy pity, like heaven, embracing all. 
Hath peculiar dews for them, Marie, 
Peculiar love for them. 



* '* La fauase piete eat to\x\o\r» <5t\xsS\a?^ — ^M.«A«?3iXw.* 



^ 



290 POEMS OF 

Oh I cleanse oar mortal stains, Ladye, 

In the all-atoning gore, 
Capture our hearts in thy golden chains, 
Lead in ovation earth's conquered trains, 
To the realms of love where the Man-God 
reigns, 

Whom thy breast in ransom bore, Marie, 
Whom thy breast in ransom bore. 

Thou art the Triad's flow'r, Ladye,* 

Lily of God alone ! 
Thy Son, ere time's first morning hour — 
The Spirit's Love, the Father's pow'r. 
Had made thy breast their bridal boVr, 

Thy sacred heart their throne, Marie, 
Thy sacred heart their throne. 



Hark ! that triumphal hymn, Ladye ! 

Behold thy Queen, my soul I 
Her chariot wheels, like these of Him 
Whose throne is rapt by Cherubim, 
Adown the dawn like music swim, 

And sparkle while they roll, Marie, 
And lighten while they roll ! 



* "Ave I candicum lilium iuYgvdaa Txvq\\«.\.\& "— Sfe, 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 291 

I see thee, entranced, ascend, Ladye, 

The heav'nly pow'rs among I 
Archangel hosts in thy train attend, 
The triune God from His glory bend — 
Oh ! that my voice in that hymn could 
blend 

By choirs of angels sung, Marie, 
By choirs of angels sung! 



But harps of heav'n are strung, Ladye, 

To charm celestial ears : 
And how their strings, to hail thee, rung, 
What strains exulting angels sung, 
Were too divine for mortal tongue — 

I bow in silent tears, Marie, 
I bow in silent tears. 



Victorious o'er and o'er, Ladye, 

In heaven is hymned thy praise 
To golden lyres, on the starry floor. 
Where the white-robed lords of light adore 
Thy Son, who gave His lustral gore 

Our fallen thrones to raise, Marie, 
A fallen foe to rai&e. 



292 POEMS OF 

On earth for evermore, Ladye, 

Shall man resume the strain ; 
All nations bow thy shrine before, 
And the organ-clang of the ocean's roar 
Implore thee more from shore to shore, 

Star of the restless main, Marie, 
Star of life's lonely main I 



DIES IRM. 

Woe is the day of ire, 
Shrouding the earth in fire — 
Sybil's and David's lyre 

Dimly foretold it — 
Strictly the guilty land, 
By the Avenger scanned. 
Smitten, aghast shall stand 

StUl, to behold it. 

Start from your trance profound, 
Through the rent graves around, 
Hark I the last trumpet's sound, 

Dolorous clangour ! 
Death sees in mute surprise 
Ashes to doom arise — 
Dust unto God replies — 

God in His ang^i. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 293 

Bring forth the judgment roll — 
Blazon aloud the whole 
Guilt of each trembling soul — 

Justice hath bidden. 
Then shall all hearts be known, 
Sin's abyss open thrown, 
Vengeance shall have her own, 

Naught shall be hidden. 



Oh, on that dreadful day 
What shall the sinner say, 
When scarce the just shall stay 

Judgment securely ) 
Save me, tremendous King ! 
Who the saved soul dost bring 
Under Thy mercy's wing, 

Through Thy grace purely. 



Jesus, remember I 

Caused Thee to toil and die — 

Sin brought Thee from the sky — 

I am a sinner. 
Break my soul's bitter chain — 
Thou for her love wert slain — 
Qushed Thy heart's blood in vain, 

Saviovii\ \.cimTLV«t\ 



294 POEMS OF 

Just Judge and strong I we pray, 
Ere the accusing day, 
From every stain of clay, 

Grant us remission. 
Guilty and sore in fear, 
I, clad in shame, appear — 
Yet, for Thy mercy hear, 

Lord, my petition. 



Who madest Mary pure. 
And the good thief secure, 
Gavest me also sure 

Hope of salvation. 
Though, to my shrinking gaze, 
Hell's everlasting blaze 
Glare through the judgment day's 

Dire desolation. 



Lamb, for the ransom slain I 
Then, 'mid Thy snowy train, 
At Thy right hand to reign, 

Place me for ever; 
While, at Thy dread command. 
Those at Thy left who stand. 
Far from the chosen band, 

Lightninga diaW B^^et, 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 295 

Rings the last thunder shock — 
Earth's broken pillars rock — 
Down the accursed flock 

Numberless falling — 
Down to the fiery doom, 
Gulfed in hell's hopeless tomb, 
Shriek through the ghastly gloom 

Horrors appalling. 

Contrite, in pale dismay, 
Lord ! hear a sinner pray. 
On that tremendous day 

Spread Thy shield o'er him; 
Day of great anguish, when 
God, from the dust again, 
Summons us, guilty men, 

Wailing before Him. 

Clement Thou art, as just, 
Mercy, God, on dust — 
In Thee alone we trust. 

Shelter and save us ! 
When, on the day of dole, 
Death bells of nations toll, 
Spare the immortal soul 

Thy Spirit gave us. 



296 POEMS OF 



STABAT MATER, PARAPHRASED. 

The Man of Sorrows, rais'd on high, 
O'er Calvary's purple altar hung 
All bath'd in blood ; 
And by the Cross, lamenting nigh. 
Her soul with speechless anguish wrung, 
His Mother stood : 

Whose loving heart, that awful hour, 
Was pierced with more than mortal woes 
By sorrow's sword ; 
While sin, with deicidal pow'r, 
Torments in crucifixion's throes 
Her dying Lord. 

Oh I was there ever grief like thine — 
Of sorrow's cup the bitterest — 
Afflicted maid ! 
Beholding flow His blood divine 
Whose infant head upon thy breast 
So oft was laid. 

Oh ! who from weeping could refrain, 
Seeing Christ's Mother unconsol'd 
In such distress? 
And shall she ask our tears in vain. 
Nor round His bleeding fe^t behold 
OnQ moumeT preaa'i 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 297 

For us, poor slaves, by sin defird, 
She saw her spotless Jesus hang 
With failing breath ; 
All o'er a wound her worshiped Child, 
Until with one tremendous pang 
He bow'd to death. 



At length Thy pallid lips droop down 
To give, sweet Saviour ! e'en to me, 
The kiss of peace ; 
More lowly bows Thy thorny crown — 
One shudder rocks Thy gibbet-tree — 
Thy tortures cease. 

Virgin Queen of love and woe ! 
Grant that in Calvary's tears and gore 
My soul may swim, — 
Until my frozen bosom glow 
In weeping Christ for evermore, 
And loving Him. 

O Dolorosa ! let me see 
In every tear a tear of thine. 
For sinners shed — 
And every wound recall to me, 
Madonna pale, the wounds divine 
Of Jeaua deaidi. 



298 POEMS OF 

Most holy Mother ! teach my heart 

To share the bitter pangs that wring 

The Crucified — 

To bear with thee a mourner's part 

In all His woes, and with my King 

His pains divide. 

Oh ! may I ever weep with thee, 
Bewailing Jesus pierced on high 
For sinful clay ! 
Beside the Cross on bended knee, 
To drain thy cup of anguish, I, 
Most guilty, pray. 

Virgin of Virgins ! most renown'd. 
The last of sinners deign to hear 
With thee condole — 
And stamp thy Son, so thorn'd and crown'd, 
His mock'ries, scourges, nails, and spear, 
Within my soul. 

Oh ! let His saving wounds be mine — 

And all my spotted garments lave 

In His pure blood ; 

Ere yet the flames of wrath divine 

Around me close, roll on and save, 

Eedeeming flood \ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 299 

Dear Lord ! when hence I pass away, 
Enwreathe my brows, thro' Mary's dole, 
With victor palm — 
And when this frame shall melt to clay, 
Repose with Thee my ransom'd soul 
In Mercy's calm. 



TO THE MOTHER OF THE CHRISTMAS 

BABE. 

Rosy dawn, the orient flushing, 

Dews o'er purple flowers that flow, 
Crimson wings of martyrs, blushing 

Like the blood ye shed below ; 
Ye in light celestial glowing-— 

Qems that pave Jehovah's hall, 
Eden-streams in music flowing. 

Rills o'er opal rocks that fall : 
Lamps of God careering o'er us, 

Robed in more than regal sheen, 
Sing aloud in pealing chorus. 



I 



300 POEMS OF 

While she clasps the pretty Lisper 

To her holy Virgin breast, 
White-wing'd cherubs rouud her whisper, 

Aogel armies o'er her rest. 
'Tis the lip that now on Mary 

Sweetly sheds seraphic smiles^ 
Bids the tides of ocean vary, 

Lights on high the starry isles. 
Ye who from the sun's dominions. 

Gaze upon that heavenly scene, 
Sing to harps, with quivering pinions, 

Hail, Holy Queen I 

All the spheres behold with wonder 

Sleeping on thy bosom lie 
Him whose word in cloud and thunder 

HurPd them flaming through the sky. 
Mary I sacred Star of Ocean, 

Bise thou o'er the stormy brine, 
Quell the passions' wild commotion. 

Cheer and save us, Mother mine ! 
Round us while the tempest rages, 

Be thy guiding lustre seen. 
And our song through endless ages. 

Hail, Holy Queen I 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 301 



THE SISTER OF MERCY. 

Before the Gross, before the altar, 

She gave her vows to God, 
To bear that Cross, and ne'er to falter. 

To trace the steps He trod. 

The world's false lights — its wild emotion, 
Shall move her mind no more ; 

The star which wakes her soul's devotion 
Illumes th' eternal shore. 

Vain dreams of youth are past and perished, 
While youth is still in bloom ! 

Friends, hopes, and scenes, once lov'd and 
cherish'd, 
Ai'e sunk in memory's tomb. 

Or if, when met, these long forsaken, 

To calm delight give birth, 
The wish — the thought — their presence 
waken, 

Belong not to this earth. 

'^ It is not here we seek our treasures," 
She cries, " where all is vain ; 

Not here I seek the short-lived pleasures, 
Which folly \>uya itoxcL "^««i« 



302 . POEMS OF 

''Be mine the task, in every season, 

To soothe the suflf 'rer's woe, 
On grief- wrung thoughts and wand 'ring 
reason 

Sweet mercy to bestow. 

" For me the mean thatch'd hut is pleasant, 

If mercy there can find 
An entrance to the wretched peasant. 

The lowliest of his kind. 

" An outcast ! true — yet, oh ! remember, 

I follow Him whose head 
Was pillow'd in the cold December 

Upon His stable bed." 

Still may just Heaven, its frowns repressing, 

Point out the path ye go. 
And crown with many a fruitful blessing 

The labours ye bestow ; 

Till in that land where grief comes never, 

And weary souls find rest, 
Ye meet for ever and for ever. 

Companions of the blest. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. . 303 



LINES 

ON THE DEATH OV HIS INFANT DAUGHTEB, KATIE. 

Dear baby-daugbter I in tbe ligbt divine 
No angel waves a purer wing than thine. 
Soon may my sorrows, like thy days, be o'er- 
Soon may I see, love, wonder and adore, 
Gazing on God with thee for evermore ! 



TO ISABEL. 

Fear not ! if aught except the throne of heaven's 
thrice holy Sire, 

Shall last for aye, 'tis Love alone, whose all-pro- 
ducing fire 

Lit up of yore the morning's springs, and bade 
the stars to roll, 

Who thrills the angel's iris-wings, and vivifies 
the soul. 

He moulds thy lovely form and face, thy gentle 
bosom's swell. 

Thine ev'ry gesture's artless grace with more 
tlian mortal spell ; 



304 POEMS OF 

And, nobler far, true woman's heart to solace 

and to save ; 
And pitying tears — I saw them start, and knew 

myself thy slave — 
A tender, playful, spotless mind, so wise, 

although so young ; 
A heart where evVy virtue's shrin'd, a guileless, 

tuneful tongue, 
A radiant crown of raven hair, bright Aphro- 
dite's form, 
With all of Erin purely fair, with all of Cyprus 

warm. 
All these He gave thee ; doubt Him not. His 

fullest pow'r and will 
Have bless'd so long thy favoured lot. He must 

protect thee still. 
'Twere false to brand the god untrue : while 

fickle Fancy flies, 
Love takes the souFs immortal hue, and with 

her only dies I 
His pure shrine braves the stormy birth of 

whirlwind, hail, and levin — 
Its pillars rest on mother-earth, but the dome is 

high in heaven ! 
Though Eros' temple-basis lies on passion's lava- 

rocky 
The be&v'nw&rd summits "pwc^^Jci^ «kies above 
the thunder-shock I 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 305 

I would our kindred hearts had met in less of 

clouds and gloom — 
Our hands are clasped, our cheeks are wet above 

. a recent tomb. 
Yet love that springs from woe, 'tis said, like 

woe is deep and true : 
The tears that wept the early dead may rise in 

flow'rs anew. 
As nature's most ambrosial bow'rs above de- 
struction wave,* 
No seldom rose and orange flowers have 

blossom'd o'er the grave. 
Yet me, it seems, a phantom waits the '^ silent 

land" before, 
And who so pass those gloomy gates, they shall 

return no more. 
The rosy crown shall ne'er be mine — I bear the 

cypress bough, 
A colder, whiter hand than thine is press'd 

upon my brow. 
But if in other worlds the souls may meet that 

lov'd in this. 
Ours shall embrace, beyond the poles, in unity 

of bliss — 
As wave with wave commingling rolls, our 

blending spirits kiss. 

* An aUusion, probably, to the fertility of the soU 
that covers extinct volcaxLoe^. 



306 POSMS OF 



A BREEZE THROUGH THE FOREST. 

The sounding forest towers 

Through the tinted blossom showers — 

Green heavens raining flowers, 

like my heart in the days that are 
gone. 

The simplest weed that grows 
Vies in radiance with the rose, 
And the turtle-doves repose 

Hid in vines, like the loves that are 
gone. 

thousand-pillared shrine 
Of an Architect divine ! 
What chancel meet as thine 

For praise to the days that are gone 1 

Young fronds embrace the air, 
And all gorgeous hues and rare 
Tinge the liuwimis fruits they bear, 

Like my dreams in the days that are 
gone. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 307 

But oh I what forest hath 
Such unf orgotten path 
As the haunted fairy rath 

Where we met in the days that are 
gone? 

For an Irish Venus there. 
Twining shamrocks in her hair, 
Smiled a glory through the air 

Pore as dawn in the days that are gone. 

Oh I the soul within her eyes, 
And our mingled tears and sighs — 
Hush ! in Irish clay she lies ; 

Hang a pall o'er the days that are gone. 

Now a wailing phantom there 
Wrings the death-dew from her hair, 
Gazing westwards in despair 

Through the mist, where the black 
ships have gone. 

Thou shalt not long alone 

O'er our joy's abandoned throne 

To the midnight breezes moan 

O'er the hopes of the days that are 
gone. 



308 POSICS OF 

My life is ebbing fast, 
Od the fiery southern blast 
I spring to thee at last, 

First love of the days that are gone. 

Prophetic shadows loom 

O'er my spirit from the tomb — 

Iq glory, or in gloom, 

Thou art mine, by the days that are 
gone. 



There too the white-thorn blows 
O'er the mother's dust, whose woes 
One heart — one only — knows ; 

Child of tears, it is well thou art gone. 

As I bore thee home to die, 
The lark filled all the sky ; 
Twas thine angel's call on high — 

Let us pray for the souls that are gone. 

I miss the cloister bells 
Through the ruin hallowed dells, 
The round towers and holy wells, 

That were part oi the days that are 
gone. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 309 

And the friends — alas! how few — 
In the hours of anguish true, 
Whose inmost hearts I knew, 

In the fire of the days that are gone* 



And the dreams that once I dreamed 
Of a nation's soul redeemed 
From the hell in which she seemed 
A saint in the days that are gone. 

Oh, the joy of falling then 
In the front of arm^d men, 
Laurelled victors, ne'er again 

To crouch, as in days that are gone 1 

How gladly would I pour 
My heart's enchaliced gore 
In libation on thy shore I 

But I raved in the days that are gone. 



And in my lonely hours 
I clomb the Baal-fire tow'rs 
In their drapery of flow'rs, 

There to muse in the days that are 
gone. 



Sia POEMS OF 

And the stars were not too high 
For my wingdd soul to fly ; 
And I saw with raptured eye 

God, through all, in the days that are 
gone. 

Still the tomb, the rath, the shrine, 
And love's memories divine, 
O rich in tears ! are thine, 

Widowed queen of the days that are 
gone. 



Sad isle o! chains and graves, 
Though thy sons are slaves of slaves, 
I bless thee o'er the waves 

For the sake of the days that are gone. 



Thus memory, like a breeze 
Through the strong and silent trees, 
Bowed my manhood, strewing these 

Withered leaves of the days that are 
gone. 



RICHARD D*ALTON WILLIAMS. 311 



NOT FOR ME. 

Careless of the dark Hereafter, 
Fairy childhood's magic laughter 
Lightly rings from floor to rafter, — 

Not for me ! 
Sunset's angel fondly hovers 
O'er the sheltering copse that covers 
All the world to whispering lovers — 

Not for me I Not for me ! 



Love— the heart's immortal story ! 
Young, though Earth and Time be hoary, 
Bums — shall bum — ^in fervid glory — 

But not for me. 
Passion's tide hath ebbed for ever- 
Dearest friendships wane and sever — 
Murdered love reviveth never, 

Never I Never I more for me. 



Not for me, in sylvan alleys, 
Leafy nooks and happy valleys. 
Loveliness confiding dallies, 



i 



312 FOfllCS OF 

Last farewells are writ and spoken 
Sooner were the dead awoken. 
Than renewed the jewel broken, 

Woe is me ! Woe is me ! 



Soon shall thrill the love-bird's measure- 
Spring nnfold her living treasarOi 
Nature's smile in vernal pleasure — 

Not for me. 
Shadows veil the moon's reflection, 
Blushes rise without detection, 
Whispers thrill with pure affection, 

Not for me. Not for me. 

Irish harps no more shall fire me, 
Irish Beauty's lips inspire me<^ 
Mute I mourn tho' joy desire me— 

Woe is me 1 
Once the song not thus was wasted. 
Beauty's burning lips untasted — 
Ah, how swiftly summer hasted I 

Woe is me. Woe is me. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 313 



THE VOICE OF JUNE. 

Passinq along through the maze of years, 
Moving to music of tuneful spheres, 
I come from the bloom of my Southern bow'rs, 
To spangle the vale with my starry flowers ; 
With thin, floating vest, and loosened zone, 
I am bride of the Sun on his high golden throne ; 
He reclines on my breast in his noontide glow, 
And his fiercest beams round my hot brow flow, 
I drink in the fire of his warmest sigh — 
For the bride of the royal Sun am I. 

My sisters have sprinkled the April showers. 

And called forth the leaves in the mild May 
bowers. 

They have decked them with pearls and em- 
erald sheen. 

And flung forth my banner of verdant green ; 

They wept precious dewdrops at night o'er the 
lawn, 

Then kissed the moist flowers in the blush of 
the dawn ; 

But still there was wanting to light up the 
scene 

TAe life-giving Bim\ft oi ^^ Vsa ^x«fiMs.^^^^^jS^^ss^*^ 



314 POEMS OF 

So I come o'er the Alps and the wild Pyrenees, 
From the climes of soft Asia, far o'er the seas. 
To make all my verdure and loveliness thine 1 
Dear Isle of the ocean, Green Grem of the sea, 
I abandon my fanes to return to thee ! 

'Neath the burning wheels of my golden car. 
The fountains are freed from their chains of spar ; 
They spring forth in mirth from theis^pure cool 

caves, 
And dance through the forest with joyful waves. 
The sigh of the gale through the trees is mute, 
Or soft as the sound of a lover's lute ; 
The tremulous Zephyrus languidly blows 
And sips the pale nectar concealed in the rose ; 
Or, fainting with fragrance, he tremblingly 

breathes 
Over jessamine, blue bells, and primrose wreaths, 
My charmf ul spells even Neptune beguile. 
Who is calm and serene to my witchery's smile. 
He kisses my lip as Fm sinking to rest. 
Descending his waves to my couch in the west. 
Sweet choristry swells on the whispering gale, 
The yellow bloom bends in the smiling vale, 
The spirit of gladness bounds over the hills. 
Plays in the elm bows, laughs in the rills. 
AJlNatare'a in motion, and aunligltit and love, 
WMe the Spirit of Gladness ia \ioVtm% «Jww^» 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 315" 

Lo 1 fanning the breeze with his odorous wings^ 
The Spirit of Perfume his f ragrancy brings ; 
The roses droop down as he flies o'er their beds,. 
And sweet-scented showers from each pur» 

pinion sheds; 
And the Spirit of Music is out on the gale 
And pours his sweet song over valley and dale ; 
The airs are all balmy, the warblers rejoice, 
And the bells of the floVrets are thrilled at 

his voice ; 
The white hawthorn blossom its snowy fringe 

bends, 
The murmuring stream from its castle descends,^ 
Now stealing o'er mosses, now winding through 

flow'rs, 
And sparkling o'er pebbles in noontide hours. 

I have deepened the tints of the garden's hues. 
And sprinkled the petals with crystal dews, 
I have called forth the song, and the smile, and 

the sigh, 
I have silvered the clouds of the deep blue sky,. 
I have laden the branches with purple and gold, 
And cast o'er the mountains my green robe'& 

fold, 
I have brought forth the cypress in sorrow to> 

bloom 
O'er the tear-lit tutt oi 1)dl<^ «d£^l ^«s\i^^ 



316 POBMS OF 

I delight to make ever the long grass wave 
And shadow with verdure the youthfal grave. 
Yet think not on sorrow, rejoice while you majt 
For my chariot is rushing — I must not stay ; 
And circle your brow with the red rose leaves 
'Neath the quivering shade that the aspen 

weaves. 
Where the strawberry tendrils their arms en- 
twine 
And the fruits in thick clusters all purply 

shine. 
Although there be many a dark-flashing eye 
That shall lose all its light ere the sere-leaf die, 
Bejoice in the hour of your strength and your 

bloom, 
Nor reflect that the herbage is fresh on your 

tomb, 
That shall never decay till beneath it laid deep, 
You shall silently slumber in death's long sleep. 

Away, then, away to the wild wood bow'rs ! 
And wreathe you with lovely tho' fleeting flow'rs, 
Let laurel hang down with its cooling bloom. 
From the sanguine flakes of the warrior's plume. 
Let Beauty recline with the soft rose rolled 
Through the shining rings of her hair of gold : 
■Rejoice, ob, rejoice in your glotya day, 
■For the dark grave yawns, an4 1 m\x«X. vw vj \ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 317 

While waters are sparkling and music is 

gashing, 
While zephyrs are sighing and amaranths 

blushing, 
While the smooth sea heaves to the gentle 

moon, 
Away, away to the still leafy glade I 
To carol glad songs in th' enamelled shade ; 
The time must come that dissolves my spell — 
Away to the forest ! Farewell ! Farewell ! 

Fibrmryy 1843. 



EKIN. 

I DREAMT that a lion lay bleeding in fetters, 
Fast bound on an isle of the far Western 
wave^ 
And I saw on his front, scarred with fire-branded 
letters, 
" Behold the Earth's scorned one — a satisfied 
slave" 

O Erin, alas ! is thy green robe so faded, 
Since tyrants have blasted thy beautiful 
plains ) 
Are thy sons — oh, how fallen! — so deeply 
degraded, 
As tamely to list totti^ dwSK.^\^'s«^ ^^scgsA 



318 POBBiS OF 

Poor serf! canst thou slumber t I feel my blood 
barning, 
I sink — crimsoned o'er with the blushes of 
shame : "* 
Arise! and the thrall of your fell despots 
spuming, 
Give the harp-blazoned banner to battle and 
fame. 

Do the deep echoes mock me, or hear I a sound 
As of far-distant billows collecting their might, 

While hollowly thunder-peals mutter around 1 
Yes ! Yes ! Lo the nation's upspringing to 
fight! 

At length the dread spirit of Liberty rallies : 
Hark I list how the crown-crushing avalanche 
roars I 
Arouse ye to war from your thousand green 
valleys, 
Be strong as the ocean that lashes your shores. 

Brave bondsmen, arise I shout aloud o'er the 
waters, 
" We swear by our altars, our sires, and their 
graves. 
No longer, loved land, shall thy sorrowing 

daughters 
Be consorts and mothers of apixiWea^ ^V7^^ 



KICHAKD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 319 

In the shock of the conflict, our wild harp up- 
rearing, 
Spill freely the best blood each bosom affords ; 
Heaven prosper the shamrock — wreathed ensign 
of Erin, 
And, God of the Patriot, breathe on our 
swords. 

Ottober, 1841. 



MELPOMENE. 



[The Goddess of Tragedy addresses her sisters.] 



MiNB are the tears from deepest passion wrung! 
My harp with chords of broken hearts is strung ! 
From me, in ev'ry land, in ev'ry age, 
Has streamed the brightest glow of Genius' 

page. 
In classic Greece 'twas mine alone to inspire 
The noblest raptures of the Attic lyre. 
By me Medea swims through crimson waves, 
And, Fury-tortured, wild Orestes raves ; 
The tyrant (Edipus to earth is hurled — 
The curse and horror of the affrighted world. 
I show the Gods' high justice, sure though late — 
Avenging Furies and Te\«iL^iX»&^'^^^ — 



320 POEMS OF 

The. poisoned goblet, the ensanguined hilt, 
The self-tormenting agonies of guilt. 
The midnight murderer shuns the sacred light. 
From Hades' hell-dogs fleeing with affright ; 
While sin-born phantoms people all the gloom, 
Or make the palace fouler than the tomb, 
And snake-bound demons blast his staring eyes, 
Till by his own red hand despairing Murder dies ! 
I also sing the hero in distress ; 
The might divine of suffering holiness ; 
The noble Eegulus — ^Virginia's fate — 
A tyrant trampled, and a rescued State. 
I point to Caesar, in his power and pride, 
With hundred daggers gleaming in his side. 
I show how Virtue, cherished of the Gods, 
Victorious combats against fearful odds. 
Each slumbering passion at my nod appears ; 
I fire to rage or melt to tender tears. 
I wave my wand, and lo ! the tranquil sage, 
The jealous lover, moves across the stage ; 
The maid distraught, the proud and cruel queen, 
Hate, Envy, Madness, stalk along the scene. 
A solemn horror rises at my will ; 
The lips are breathless and the pulses still. 
And who, save me, from Agannippe's wave 
Can rule the shapes of Memory's magic cave, 
Becall the past, and bid it live anew, 
With iria tintinga, making \.iuV.\i mo^^ U\i^\ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 321 

Idle Erato's every short-lived dream, 
And Clio's annals, dry and frigid seem ; 
Let light Terpsichore enjoy the dance ; 
May, too, Calliope her claims advance ; 
Thalia smile, and sweet Euterpe sing; 
In higher realms I spread a stronger wing. 
What human heart has e'er approached my 

throne^ 
Nor captive bowed in worship, all my own 1 
The warrior's cheek in hundred battles brent, 
I send back tearful, child-like, to his tent. 
Youth I instruct ; rejuvenate the old ; 
Temper the rash, and vivify the cold. 
My sceptre waves o'er every land and clime, 
The stay of Virtue, but the scourge of Crime. 
I claim a kingdom ancient as the day 
When man first felt and o>nied the passions' 

sway ; 
For every Muse but ministers to me — 
I am your queen, as I shall ever be ; 
Yet raise you all to share my rightful throne, 
And shed o'er each a glory not her own ! 
To me, then, sisters, bow your laurels down — 
The Tragic Queen alone should wear the crown. 

Baton Rouge, Louisiana. 
August 9th, 1856. 



322 POEMS OF 



PROLOGUE FOR "CATO." 



[Written in 1841 for a performanoe in the Theatre of 
the Lay College, Carlow.] 



To-night we try to picture on our stage 

The by-gone glories of a vanished age, 

To bring once more the great in soul to view, 

And wake a sparkle of his fire in yon. 

'Tis true the cypress droops and aspens wave 

And night winds whisper over Oato*s grave — 

Embalmed in tears the matchless hero lies, 

But it is false to say the patriot dies. 

No, tried in fire, his name, by history's pen, 

Shall live for ever in the minds of men. 

I know the hero coldly sleeps in clay, 

But yet not thus his fame shall pass away. 

Spurning the tomb, aloft on starry wings. 

Unscathed by death, immortal Virtue springs ; 

From sunniest climes to where dark tempest 

folds 
With stormy gloom the frozen zone, she holds 
Her flight sublime, where spheres in music roll, 
And wafts the patriot's name in song from pole 
to pole. 



RICHARD D' ALTON WILLIAMS. 323 

Lo ! Freedom, soaring from the Alpine hills, 
Her chosen son with inspiration fills ! 
The stoic Eoman and his generous hand 
The shackle spurn, though gilt hy Caesar's hand — 
Prom tyrant sway to Afric's desert flies, 
And, ere a chain defiles, the godlike Cato dies. 
Here, too, appears — alas for human pride ! 
The strongest hend, the nohlest turn aside 
From duty's path when Love has hreathed his 

spell. 
Thus Porcius, Marcus, thus young Juha fell, 
Who, while o'er Eome and Cato ruin hung, 
Gould list the music of a maiden's tongue. 



Oh ! there's a spell in dangerous woman's eyes, 
A lurking lightning in their softness lies, 
A maddening vapour is her gentlest sigh, 
Within whose magic peace and honour die — 
Man bows a captive in the treacherous wile, 
And blindly barters Heaven for a smile. 



Behold Sempronius — lawless passions lead 
To falsehood — treason — every ruthless deed. 
And Syphax more. But why on treachery 

dwell? 
Alas 1 poor Erin knows this theme too welL 



324 POEMS OF 

Will any gaze with cold, with tearless eyes 
While Csesar triumphs and while Cato dies, 
Nor abject deem the tyrant's hateful crown 
Before the grave where slumbers pure renown 9 



Apply the moral I Oh, resolve to be— 
Were life the price — for ever proudly free I 
Did yellow Tiber flow through lovelier bow'rs % 
Did Cato vaunt a fairer land than ours? 
Or, when his soul indignantly withdrew, 
Fell there a star that Heaven could not 

renew 1 
No I for our isle can boast high heroes still, 
Of happier genius and of equal will ; 
And daughters fair, replete with nobler fire 
Than Marcia's, borrowed from her awful sire. 
How sweetly wisdom warbles from their lipS| 
Whose mental charms their beauties e'en eclipse, 
With woman's hope and man's indignant pride 
To more than manly fortitude allied. 
Who keenly feel, yet firmly bear our wrongs, 
And only speak their grief in Erin's mourning 

songs. 
But I have wandered. Briefly, then, to end : 
As each one here we know to be a friend, 
We dread not censure for our toils to find — 
^or that, fair friends, would 8\rce\j \>^ xjix^xA^ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 325 

We've sanguine hopes to please — our stay is this, 
That friends will praise though much may be 

amiss. 
Then judge us not too harshly, but allow 
Fair friendship's smile to smooth your critic's 

brow. 
The arduous task to wake the dead be ours, 
'Tis yours to draw the honey from the flowers. 



THE FAIEIES OF KNOCKSHEGOWNA.* 

A RUSTLING, whirling sound sweeps by, 

Like leaves on an Autumn breeze, 
Though, since sunset fled, there was scarce a sigh 

To stir the slumbering trees ; 
And a troop comes forth from the moonlit bower 

With such mist-like motion on, 
That you may not find an injured flower 

Where their coursers' hoofs have gone. 
They glide along o'er the dewy banks, 

On their viewless filmy wings, 
And anon and again from their restless ranks 

Their fairy laughter rings. 

* The name of a Fairy Hill in Lower Ormond, and 
means Oonagh's Hill, — so cia\lftdixci!Hv\i^\a%\Xsal^a^'^^ 
residence of Una the Faerie Qaeenaa oi^^'aafcx. 



326 POEMS OF 

In lonely dells, where the starbeams fall 

Bat on fern, and lake, and tree, 
Nor eye profane the mirth may mar, 

I have heard their minstrelsie. 
To the fitful song of the hai;inted stream 

The aerial numbers flow ; 
And their tiny spears in the starlight gleam 

To the burden to and fro. 
Away ! quick march ! through the ruined arch, 

At the sound of the nutshel gong — 
And here shall halt, at the Viking's vault, 

And chant him a battle song. 
Now, left and right, in the moon*s pale light, 

Low'r your flags as the Monarch comes ; 
In the Elfin ring is the Elfin king — 

Ding-a-dong go the Elfin drums ! 
With the glow-worm's gem in his diadem 

For this festal pageant lit, 
The beetle booms through the hawthorn blooms, 

And the bats through the branches flit. 
Advance I advance ! for a farewell dance, 

Ere the nightly pomp is o'er ; 
From a mushroom's cone shall our pipers drone — 

The sward our elastic floor ; 
While phooka horse holds his frantic course 

O'er wood and mountain fall, 
And the banshees croon a rhythmic ivvxi^ 
■From the crumbling, ivied waW\ 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 327 

Iq the noon of night, o'er the stormy hill, 

The fairy minstrels play ; 
And the strain, replete with fantastic dreams, 

On the wild gust flits away. 
Then the sleeper thinks, as the dreamful song 

On the blast to his slumbers comes, 
That his nose as the church's spire is loDg, 

And, like its organ, hums ! 
And when they spread their filmy wings 

In the dim moon's waning ray. 
Strange meteors dance, and the glittering rills 

Seem showering fiery spray. 
And deep when booms the solemn toll 

Of the distant cloister bells, 
The clang, and the clash, and the tambour roll 

Of their midnight music swells. 
Their beamy spears, and crests, and shields. 

The lated wanderer sees. 
And their blazoned banners flap and fly 

And rattle on the breeze. 

'Tis thus, in martial panoply, 

The Genii of the wold. 
With Elfin pomp and minstrelsy, 

Their nightly revels hold. 



328 POEMS OF 



CX)ME WITH ME O'ER OHtO. 

Comb with me o'er Ohio, 

Among the vines of Indiana, 
Or nearer to the tropic glow, 

Its gorgeous plumes and vast hanana, 
Its teeming vales and waters rife, 

Eich foliage, shining fruits abundant, 
Superfluous springs of fiery life. 

From nature's burning heart redundant. 
Desert a land of corse and slave. 

Of pauper woe and tinsel splendour ; 
Poor Eire now is all a grave, 

And gone the few who dared defend her. 
For her they freely perilled all, 

And braved the darkest fate serenely, 
But when " God's Truth" shall lift their pall, 

Their wreath for aye shall bourgeon greenly. 
Behold a newer world reveal 

For us her bosom rich and ample. 
Whereon, dear girl, the gory heel 

Of British greed shall never trample. 
Not there shall loom her dungeon bars — 

Her "Felon Flag" no more shall blast us ; 
-Bae Freedom's sign of clustered Staia, 
-4. glorious omen, glitter paat us. 



I 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 329 

And from the soft, luxuriant soil 

Spontaneous flowers shall spring between us, 
And plenty bless the joyful toil 

Of Geres minist'riDg to Venus. 
With arm^d hand, at break of day, 

ril climb for thee the mountain eyrie ; 
And chase till noon the antlered prey 

Through sounding wood and waving prairie. 
And health shall keener zest afford 

Than cups of gold to every trifle 
That decks our simple cottage board — 

The casual spoil of net or rifle. 

There is a love the poets dream 

In cloudland's flow'ry realms ideal ; 
But that which springs from true esteem 

Alone is lasting, deep, and real. 
I saw thee, cheerful, bold, and calm. 

Subdue the tear that fain had risen — 
Each word and gesture pouring balm 

Upon the wounded hearts in prison. 
I saw thee daily bravely bear 

The tasks that make a sister's duty ; 
And never woman seems so fair 

As when Affection lights up Beauty. 
And well I know thy gentle breast 

Has felt, with maiden intuition. 
That luxury's ignoble rest 

h fax beneath out 4es\.\\i^^ \si\8»ivs^- 



330 POEMS OF 

We leave the slave's, the trickster's whine, 

The bigots howl, the rage of faction, 
To fell the oak, and plant the vine, 

And live in earnest useful action. 
Bring not grey Europe^s silk or gems, 

A candid soul is ample dowry 
Where Freedom laughs at diadems. 

Beside the thunder-toned Missouri. 
Ten thousand herds approach her rills — 

A thousand verdurous valleys feed 'em — 
Her torrents, from a thousand hills, 

Eush in delirious joy of freedom. 
Around our forest cottage door. 

The grape, untrained, shall fondly cluster, 
And fling at eve, thy bosom o'er, 

A sunset flush of wine-rich lustre. 

'Tis night, and hark the mighty floods 

Upon their march to ocean singing — 
The wild winds harping through the woods, 

Or distant signal-rifles ringing ; 
And lo ! a thousand prairie colts. 

In trampling charge around their leader, 
Rush onward like the thunderbolts 

Among the crashing trunks of cedar. 
And when we seek the Maker's throne — 
Oar temple-roof the zenith o'er us — 
Oar organ-paalm shall be the tone 
Of Nature's universal chorus: 



RICHAKD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 331 

And loud o'er all life-symphonies 

The awful, everlasting thunder 
Of Erie-Falls, as when the seas, 

Up-bursting, smote our globe asunder I 
And thou shalt kneel as knelt thy sires — 

Thy valiant sires — in arms before Him ; 
While I with faith, through penal fires 

Two hundred years intact, adore Him. 

Let gloomy bigots rave, and seek 

Their neighbours' souls to hell ward hustle — 
The nine choired Heaven is not a clique — 

The Lord of Hosts is not a Russell. 
But we shall teach, all lore above, 

The youthful heart to Truth aspirant. 
Of God and man sublimest love. 

And mortal hate to knave and tyrant. 
For he blasphemes the bounteous God 

His likeness in the soul who lessens. 
And strives to quench, with chain and rod. 

Immortal Freedom's holy essence. 
And may it be, in later time, 

If thy dear voice o'er ocean called him, 
His gallant heart might seek our clime, 

Who suffers now in distant thraldom. 
Oil ! how that heart would bound to find 

Above our happy home, before him, 
The starry symbol, oix \J[i'^ mvA, 
Of God's eternal \)WiTi^x cJetVws^X 



332 • POEBIS OF 

And when the hooTi predestined, tolls, 

That freezes life's diminished fountains, 
We'll see descend, with tranquil souls. 

Our lost sun o'er the Bocky Mountains. 
Come ! let us fly to Freedom's sky, 

Where love alone hath power to bind us, 
There honoured live, lamented die, 

And leave a spotless name behind us ! 

March Ut, 1851. 



LONGING. 



** Ah, my heart is weary waiting 

Waiting for the May." — D. JF. MaoCarthy. 



I WISH I was home in Ireland, 
For the Summer will soon be there, 

And the fields of my darling sire-land 
To my heart will be fresh and fair. 

Down where the deep Black water 
Glides on to its ocean rest, 
Aad the bilk, with their greeii-c\?i4 Vio^oms, 
Boll up from the river's brea.at. 



RICHARD D'ALTON WILLIAMS. 333 

To sit where the waters murmur 
To the birds in the bending trees, 

While the silver wavelets glitter. 
Stirred by the evening breeze. 

To watch while the silent fisher 

Quivers his trembling line, 
Where the trout from the golden river 

Bound to the red sunshine. 

While the song of the distant milker 
Gomes down with the evening cloud, 

And the mist from the lowland valleys 
Steals up like a snow-white shroud. 

To muse where the deep Blackwater, 
Like a courser, comes bounding in, 

With a rush, through the marble arches 
That span it by Cappoquin. 

Where the dews on the woodlands glitter, 
And the rocks rise so tall and grand, 

And when all living things are happy, 
But the SODS of that hapless land. 

For they sit by the stranger's waters, 

As did Israel's sons of yore, 
And their harps are hung on^he willows. 

And their liewlB^\\ie^ «t^ <scv>^^^'«^^^issw^' 



334 POKMS OF RICHARD D'ALTON WILLUMS. 

As if from a plague-struck country, 
Far off flies the sun-brown Gael, 

And his voice in the land that bore him 
Is sunk to a fainting wail. 

Like leaves in the Autumn tempest, 
Or clouds in the Wintry wind, 

Is he sweeping from green old Ireland, 
While the Tyrant remains behind. 

To waste his young life in sadness, 

And toiling from day to day, 
To long for a glimpse of Erin, 

Ere he sleep in his bed of clay. 

I wish I was home in Ireland, 
For the flowers will soon be there. 

Clothing each vale and highland, 
And loading the perfumed air. 

For, in spite of the Saxon's scowlings, 

The land to my heart is dear. 
And to be but one day in Ireland 

Were worth a whole lifetime here. 



THE END. 



with this Vol. 20)6 pages, cloth, price One Shilling. 



THE 

and Letters of Jolm Martm. 

With Sketches of 

IS Devin Eeilly, Father John Eenyon, 
and other '' Young Irelanders." 

Author of ""'Life of John Mitchel.' 



pgcstive and valuable book to the thoughtful 
eader.'' — Daily Chronicle, {Ne^ucastle, England), 
ided and welcome addition to our shelves of Irish 
y, excellently written." — Freeman^ s .loitmal. 
xcellent book, full of facts very well told, and 
r a capital shillingsworth." — Irish Monthly, 
y Irishman who desires an intimate acquaint- 
I the heroes of the '48 movement should procure 

this valuable little work.*' — Waterford i^ews. 
writer gives admirable sketches of Devin Reilly 
ler John Kenyon. Of these two we have had 
10 adequate memoir." — United Ireland, 

very sympathetic, and indeed it could not 
: be, treating of such a wise and gentle char- 
he letters throw new but not unexpected light 
reer of John Martin." — John Augustus CShea, 

admirably written book. A worthy work to 
,e same author's * Life of John Milchel.'*' — 
xminer, 
ft read it with inteiest." — Right Hon, W. E* 



^% 

:y readable and interesting volume." — Catholic 

of interest." — Donohoe^s Magazine, 
author tells Martin's story with much grace 
, knowing when to gossip and when to rise to a 
vel"— Boston Filoi* 



Uniform with this Vol, 285 pages^ cloth, price One Shilling, 

LIFE OF JOHN MITCHEL. 

WITH AN HISTOBIOAL SKETCH OF THE '48 MOTSMBNT 

IN IBELAND. 

*^ The author has clearly put his heart and s(Mil into 
the writing of it, and he is in fullest sympathy with his 
subject in all his thoughts and works. He has made the 
story of John Mitchel's career a very attractive one, and 
he has sketched a busy and a critical period with a verr 
sympathetic and a very graphic pen. . . . " — Freeman i 
Journal, 

** It is an excellent Life, and deserves to be widely • 
bought and read in Ireland." — United Ireland, 

'' The great-hearted patriot whose memory Irishmen 
love and revere, finds a sympathetic biographer in P.A.S. 
. . . This little monograph is a fine tribute to its great 
subject, and ' P. A.S.' has done his work of love lovingly 
and ^N€iV'— Boston Pilot, 

*' This is an interesting little book, as it could hardly 
fail to be with John Mitchel for its theme. It has been 
compiled with considerable skill and industry^nd is 
particularly rich in apposite extracts from Mitchelnimself 
and others of the Young Ireland party." — Irish Monthly, 

"P.A.S. has shown a conscientious desire to do justice 
to the great Irishman whose history he has written in 
this volume, and we cordially endorse what is said of 
John Mitchel in the concluding paragraph of the work." 
— Michael Davitt in the Labour World, 

" It gives us a good deal of Mitchel's own writings 
and speeches, not available elsewhere, and the selections 
are well made." — Th4 Nation, 

" The writer of the above is, undoubtedly, an ardent 
admirer of the hero of the work, whose principles were at 
all times unhesitatingly given expression to. . . . There 
many extracts from the speeches and newspaper - 



are 



articles of John Mitchel from the papers he conducted in 
America." — Limerick Reporter, 

" I read it carefully, and will freely say it gave me 
much pleasure. It is sound, concise, and clear." — John 
Augustus CShea, 



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